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Stories  by  Mrs.  Molesworth 


©BY     DUFFIELD     8     COMPANY 


"It's  a  royal  salute,"  said  the  Cuckoo. 


See  Pui/i   88 


STORIES  BY 
MRS.  MOLESWORTH 


COMPILED  BY 
SIDNEY    BALDWIN 


With  Pictures  by 

EDNA    COOKE 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD    AND    COMPANY 

1922 


Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 


The  Cuckoo  Clock 1 

The  Six  Poor  Little  Princesses 113 

Too  Bad 123 

Carrots 143 

Mary   Ann    Jolly 257 

Basil's    Violin 272 

The  Reel  Fairies 301 

The  Blue  Dwarfs 317 

Good  Night  Winny  . 340 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"It's  a  royal  salute,"  said  the  Cuckoo frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

"Bound  and  round  in  moving  circles,  twisted  and  untwisted,  the  brilliant 

bands  of  butterflies." 72 

"What  could  be  lovelier,  what  more  perfect,  than  the  six  exquisite  dolls,  each 

more  beautiful  than  her  sister." 120 

"So  Floss  and  Carrots  ate  their  bread  and  milk  in  undiminished  curiosity."  170 

"Then  it  must  be  this  way,"  said  Floss 226 

"I've  some  one  else  here  to  kiss  you,  Wee  Janet,"  he  said 268 

"No  sooner  was  she  seated  than  off  flew  the  work  box,  away,  away."     .      .  304 

"They  were  sliding  down  the  branches  of  the  tree  in  all  directions."     .      .  332 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   OLD   HOUSE 

"Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country  seat." 

OsTce  upon  a  time  in  an  old  town,  in  an  old  street,  there 
stood  a  very  old  house.  Such  a  house  as  you  could  hardly  find 
nowadays,  however  you  searched,  for  it  belonged  to  a  gone-by 
time — a  time  now  quite  passed  away. 

It  stood  in  a  street,  but  yet  it  was  not  like  a  town  house,  for 
though  the  front  opened  right  on  to  the  pavement,  the  back  win- 
dows looked  out  upon  a  beautiful,  quaintly  terraced  garden,  with 
old  trees  growing  so  thick  and  close  together  that  in  summer  it 
was  like  living  on  the  edge  of  a  forest  to  be  near  them ;  and  even 
in  winter  the  web  of  their  interlaced  branches  hid  all  clear  view 
behind. 

There  was  a  colony  of  rooks  in  this  old  garden.  Year  after 
year  they  held  their  parliaments  and  cawed  and  chattered  and 
fussed;  year  after  year  they  built  their  nests  and  hatched  their 
eggs;  year  after  year,  I  suppose,  the  old  ones  gradually  died  off 
and  the  young  ones  took  their  place,  though,  but  for  knowing 
this  must  be  so,  no  one  would  have  suspected  it,  for  to  all  appear- 
ance the  rooks  were  always  the  same — ever  and  always  the  same. 

Time  indeed  seemed  to  stand  still  in  and  all  about  the  old 
house,  as  if  it  and  the  people  who  inhabited  it  had  got  so  old  that 
they  could  not  get  any  older,  and  had  outlived  the  possibility  of 
change. 

But  one  day  at  last  there  did  come  a  change.  Late  in  the 
dusk  of  an  autumn  afternoon  a  carriage  drove  up  to  the  door  of 

I 


2  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

the  old  house,  came  rattling  over  the  stones  with  a  sudden  noisy 
clatter  that  sounded  quite  impertinent,  startling  the  rooks  just  as 
they  were  composing  themselves  to  rest,  and  setting  them  all 
wondering  what  could  be  the  matter. 

A  little  girl  was  the  matter!  A  little  girl  in  a  gray  merino 
frock  and  gray  beaver  bonnet,  gray  tippet  and  gray  gloves — all 
gray  together,  even  to  her  eyes,  all  except  her  round  rosy  face  and 
bright  brown  hair.  Her  name  even  was  rather  gray,  for  it  was 
Griselda. 

A  gentleman  lifted  her  out  of  the  carriage  and  disappeared 
with  her  into  the  house,  and  later  that  same  evening  the  gentle- 
man came  out  of  the  house  and  got  into  the  carriage  which  had 
come  back  for  him  again,  and  drove  away.  That  was  all  that  the 
rooks  saw  of  the  change  that  had  come  to  the  old  house.  Shall  we 
go  inside  to  see  more? 

Up  the  shallow,  wide,  old-fashioned  staircase,  past  the  wain- 
scoted walls,  dark  and  shining  like  a  mirror,  down  a  long  narrow 
passage  with  many  doors,  which  but  for  their  gleaming  brass 
handles  one  would  not  have  known  were  there,  the  oldest  of  the 
three  old  servants  led  little  Griselda,  so  tired  and  sleepy  that  her 
supper  had  been  left  almost  untasted,  to  the  room  prepared  for 
her.  It  was  a  queer  room,  for  everything  in  the  house  was  queer; 
but  in  the  dancing  light  of  the  fire  burning  brightly  in  the  tiled 
grate,  it  looked  cheerful  enough. 

"I  am  glad  there's  a  fire,"  said  the  child.  "Will  it  keep  alight 
till  the  morning,  do  you  think?" 

The  old  servant  shook  her  head. 

"  'Twould  not  be  safe  to  leave  it  so  that  it  would  burn  till 
morning,"  she  said.  "When  you  are  in  bed  and  asleep,  little 
missie,  you  won't  want  the  fire.     Bed's  the  warmest  place." 

"It  isn't  for  that  I  want  it,"  said  Griselda;  "it's  for  the  light 
I  like  it.  This  house  all  looks  so  dark  to  me,  and  yet  there  seem 
to  be  lights  hidden  in  the  walls  too,  they  shine  so." 

The  old  servant  smiled. 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  3 

"It  will  all  seem  strange  to  you,  no  doubt,"  she  said;  "but 
you'll  get  to  like  it,  missie.  'Tis  a  good  old  house,  and  those  that 
know  best  love  it  well." 

"Whom  do  you  mean?"  said  Griselda.  "Do  you  mean  my 
great-aunts?" 

"Ah,  yes,  and  others  beside,"  replied  the  old  woman.  "The 
rooks  love  it  well,  and  others  beside.  Did  you  ever  hear  tell  of 
the  'good  people,'  missie,  over  the  sea  where  you  come  from?" 

"Fairies,  do  you  mean?"  cried  Griselda,  her  eyes  sparkling. 
"Of  course  I've  heard  of  them,  but  I  never  saw  any?  Did  you 
ever?" 

"I  couldn't  say,"  answered  the  old  woman.  "My  mind  is 
not  young  like  yours,  missie,  and  there  are  times  when  strange 
memories  come  back  to  me  as  of  sights  and  sounds  in  a  dream.  I 
am  too  old  to  see  and  hear  as  I  once  could.  We  are  all  old  here, 
missie.  'Twas  time  something  young  came  to  the  old  house 
again." 

"How  strange  and  queer  everything  seems !"  thought  Griselda, 
as  she  got  into  bed.  "I  don't  feel  as  if  I  belonged  to  it  a  bit. 
And  they  are  so  old:  perhaps  they  won't  like  having  a  child 
among  them?" 

The  very  same  thought  that  had  occurred  to  the  rooks !  They 
could  not  decide  as  to  the  fors  and  againsts  at  all,  so  they  settled 
to  put  it  to  the  vote  the  next  morning,  and  in  the  meantime  they 
and  Griselda  all  went  to  sleep. 

I  never  heard  if  they  slept  well  that  night ;  after  such  unusual 
excitement  it  was  hardly  to  be  expected  they  would.  But  Gris- 
elda, being  a  little  girl  and  not  a  rook,  was  so  tired  that  two 
minutes  after  she  had  tucked  herself  up  in  bed  she  was  quite  sound 
asleep,  and  did  not  wake  for  several  hours. 

"I  wonder  what  it  will  all  look  like  in  the  morning,"  was  her 
last  waking  thought.  "If  it  was  summer  now,  or  spring,  I 
shouldn't  mind — there  would  always  be  something  nice  to  do 
then." 


4  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

As  sometimes  happens,  when  she  woke  again,  very  early  in 
the  morning,  long  before  it  was  light,  her  thoughts  went  straight 
on  with  the  same  subject. 

"If  it  was  summer  now,  or  spring,"  she  repeated  to  herself, 
just  as  if  she  had  not  been  asleep  at  all — like  the  man  who  fell 
into  a  trance  for  a  hundred  years  just  as  he  was  saying  "it  is 
bitt — "  and  when  he  woke  up  again  finished  the  sentence  as  if 
nothing  had  happened — "erly  cold."  "If  only  it  was  spring," 
thought  Griselda. 

Just  as  she  had  got  so  far  in  her  thoughts,  she  gave  a  great 
start.  What  was  it  she  heard?  Could  her  wish  have  come  true? 
Was  this  fairyland  indeed  that  she  had  got  to,  where  one  only 
needs  to  wish,  for  it  to  be?  She  rubbed  her  eyes,  but  it  was  too 
dark  to  see;  that  was  not  very  fairyland-like,  but  her  ears  she  felt 
certain  had  not  decived  her:  she  was  quite,  quite  sure  that  she  had 
heard  the  cuckoo! 

She  listened  with  all  her  might,  but  she  did  not  hear  it  again. 
Could  it,  after  all,  have  been  fancy?  She  grew  sleepy  at  last, 
and  was  just  dropping  off  when — yes,  there  it  was  again,  as  clear 
and  distinct  as  possible — "Cuckoo,  cuckoo,  cuckoo!"  three,  four, 
five  times,  then  perfect  silence  as  before. 

"What  a  funny  cuckoo,"  said  Griselda  to  herself.  "I  could 
almost  fancy  it  was  in  the  house.  I  wonder  if  my  great-aunts 
have  a  tame  cuckoo  in  a  cage?  I  don't  think  I  ever  heard  of  such 
a  thing,  but  this  is  such  a  queer  house;  everything  seems  different 
in  it — perhaps  they  have  a  tame  cuckoo.  I'll  ask  them  in  the 
morning.    It's  very  nice  to  hear,  whatever  it  is." 

And,  with  a  pleasant  feeling  of  companionship,  a  sense  that 
she  was  not  the  only  living  creature  awake  in  this  dark  world, 
Griselda  lay  listening,  contentedly  enough,  for  the  sweet,  fresh 
notes  of  the  cuckoo's  friendly  greeting.  But  before  it  sounded 
again  through  the  silent  house  she  was  once  more  fast  asleep. 
And  this  time  she  slept  till  daylight  had  found  its  way  into  all 
but  the  very  darkest  nooks  and  crannies  of  the  ancient  dwelling. 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  5 

She  dressed  herself  carefully,  for  she  had  been  warned  that 
her  aunts  loved  neatness  and  precision;  she  fastened  each  button 
of  her  gray  frock,  and  tied  down  her  hair  as  smooth  as  such  a 
brown  tangle  could  be  tied  down ;  and,  absorbed  with  these  weighty 
cares,  she  forgot  all  about  the  cuckoo  for  the  time.  It  was  not 
till  she  was  sitting  at  breakfast  with  her  aunts  that  she  remem- 
bered it,  or  rather  was  reminded  of  it,  by  some  little  remark  that 
was  made  about  the  friendly  robins  on  the  terrace  walk  outside. 

"Oh,  aunt,"  she  exclaimed,  stopping  short  halfway  the  jour- 
ney to  her  mouth  of  a  spoonful  of  bread  and  milk,  "have  you  got 
a  cuckoo  in  a  cage?" 

"A  cuckoo  in  a  cage,"  repeated  her  elder  aunt,  Miss  Grizzel; 
"what  is  the  child  talking  about?" 

"In  a  cage!"  echoed  Miss  Tabitha,  "a  cuckoo  in  a  cage!" 

"There  is  a  cuckoo  somewhere  in  the  house,"  said  Griselda; 
"I  heard  it  in  the  night.  It  couldn't  have  been  out-of-doors,  could 
it?    It  would  be  too  cold." 

The  aunts  looked  at  each  other  with  a  little  smile.  "So  like 
her  grandmother,"  they  whispered.     Then  said  Miss  Grizzel 

"We  have  a  cuckoo,  my  dear,  though  it  isn't  in  a  cage,  and 
it  isn't  exactly  the  sort  of  cuckoo  you  are  thinking  of.  It  lives  in 
a  clock." 

"In  a  clock,"  repeated  Miss  Tabitha,  as  if  to  confirm  her 
sister's  statement. 

"In  a  clock!"  exclaimed  Griselda,  opening  her  gray  eyes  very 
wide. 

It  sounded  something  like  the  three  bears,  all  speaking  one 
after  the  other,  only  Griselda's  voice  was  not  like  Tiny's;  it  was 
the  loudest  of  the  three. 

"In  a  clock!"  she  exclaimed;  "but  it  can't  be  alive,  then?" 

"Why  not?"  said  Miss  Grizzel. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Griselda,  looking  puzzled. 

"I  knew  a  little  girl  once,"  pursued  Miss  Grizzel,  "who  was 
quite  of  opinion  the  cuckoo  was  alive,  and  nothing  would  have 


6  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

persuaded  her  it  was  not.  Finish  your  breakfast,  my  dear,  and 
then  if  you  like  you  shall  come  with  me  and  see  the  cuckoo  for 
yourself." 

"Thank  you,  Aunt  Grizzel,"  said  Griselda,  going  on  with  her 
bread  and  milk. 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Tabitha,  "you  shall  see  the  cuckoo  for 
yourself." 

"Thank  you,  Aunt  Tabitha,"  said  Griselda.  It  was  rather 
a  bother  to  have  always  to  say  "thank  you,"  or  "no,  thank  you," 
twice,  but  Griselda  thought  it  was  polite  to  do  so,  as  Aunt  Tabitha 
always  repeated  everything  that  Aunt  Grizzel  said.  It  wouldn't 
have  mattered  so  much  if  Aunt  Tabitha  had  said  it  at  once  after 
Miss  Grizzel,  but  as  she  generally  made  a  little  pause  between, 
it  was  sometimes  rather  awkward.  But  of  course  it  was  better  to 
say  "thank  you"  or  "no,  thank  you"  twice  over  than  to  hurt  Aunt 
Tabitha's  feelings. 

After  breakfast  Aunt  Grizzel  was  as  good  as  her  word.  She 
took  Griselda  through  several  of  the  rooms  in  the  house,  pointing 
out  all  the  curiosities,  and  telling  all  the  histories  of  the  rooms  and 
their  contents;  and  Griselda  liked  to  listen,  only  in  every  room 
they  came  to,  she  wondered  when  they  would  get  to  the  room 
where  lived  the  cuckoo. 

Aunt  Tabitha  did  not  come  with  them,  for  she  was  rather 
rheumatic.  On  the  whole,  Griselda  was  not  sorry.  It  would  have 
taken  such  a  very  long  time,  you  see,  to  have  had  all  the  histories 
twice  over,  and  possibly,  if  Griselda  had  got  tired,  she  might  have 
forgotten  about  the  "thank  you's"  or  "no,  thank  you's"  twice  over. 

The  old  house  looked  quite  as  queer  and  quaint  by  daylight 
as  it  had  seemed  the  evening  before;  almost  more  so  indeed,  for 
the  view  from  the  windows  added  to  the  sweet,  odd  "old-fash- 
ionedness"  of  everything. 

"We  have  beautiful  roses  in  summer,"  observed  Miss  Grizzel, 
catching  sight  of  the  direction  in  which  the  child's  eyes  were  wan- 
dering. 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  7 

"I  wish  it  was  summer.  I  do  love  summer,"  said  Griselda. 
"But  there  is  a  very  rosy  scent  in  the  rooms  even  now,  Aunt 
Grizzel,  though  it  is  winter,  or  nearly  winter." 

Miss  Grizzel  looked  pleased. 

"My  pot-pourri,"  she  explained. 

They  were  just  then  standing  in  what  she  called  the  "great 
saloon,"  a  handsome  old  room,  furnished  with  gold-and-white 
chairs,  that  must  once  have  been  brilliant,  and  faded  yellow  dam- 
ask hangings.  A  feeling  of  awe  had  crept  over  Griselda  as  they 
entered  this  ancient  drawing-room.  What  grand  parties  there 
must  have  been  in  it  long  ago!  But  as  for  dancing  in  it  now — 
dancing,  or  laughing,  or  chattering — such  a  thing  was  quite  im- 
possible to  imagine! 

Miss  Grizzel  crossed  the  room  to  where  stood  in  one  corner 
a  marvellous  Chinese  cabinet,  all  black  and  gold  and  carving.  It 
was  made  in  the  shape  of  a  temple,  or  a  palace — Griselda  was  not 
sure  which.  Any  way,  it  was  very  delicious  and  wonderful.  At 
the  door  stood,  one  on  each  side,  two  solemn  mandarins;  or,  to 
speak  more  correctly,  perhaps  I  should  say,  a  mandarin  and  his 
wife,  for  the  right-hand  figure  was  evidently  intended  to  be  a  lady. 

Miss  Grizzel  gently  touched  their  heads.  Forthwith,  to  Gris- 
elda's  astonishment,  they  began  solemnly  to  nod. 

"Oh,  how  do  you  make  them  do  that,  Aunt  Grizzel?"  she 
exclaimed. 

"Never  you  mind,  my  dear;  it  wouldn't  do  for  you  to  try  to 
make  them  nod.  They  wouldn't  like  it,"  replied  Miss  Grizzel 
mysteriously.  "Respect  to  your  elders,  my  dear,  always  remember 
that.  The  mandarins  are  many  years  older  than  you — older  than 
I  myself,  in  fact." 

Griselda  wondered,  if  this  were  so,  how  it  was  that  Miss 
Grizzel  took  such  liberties  with  them  herself,  but  she  said  nothing. 

"Here  is  my  last  summer's  pot-pourri,"  continued  Miss 
Grizzel,  touching  a  great  china  jar  on  a  little  stand,  close  beside 
the  cabinet.     "You  may  smell  it,  my  dear." 


8  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

Nothing  loth,  Griselda  buried  her  round  little  nose  in  the 
fragrant  leaves. 

"It's  lovely,"  she  said.  "May  I  smell  it  whenever  I  like, 
Aunt  Grizzel?" 

"We  shall  see,"  replied  her  aunt.  "It  isn't  every  little  girl, 
you  know,  that  we  could  trust  to  come  into  the  great  saloon 
alone." 

"No,"  said  Griselda  meekly. 

Miss  Grizzel  led  the  way  to  a  door  opposite  to  that  by  which 
they  had  entered.  She  opened  it  and  passed  through,  Griselda 
following,  into  a  small  ante-room. 

"It  is  on  the  stroke  of  ten,"  said  Miss  Grizzel,  consulting  her 
watch;  "now,  my  dear,  you  shall  make  acquaintance  with  our 
cuckoo." 

The  cuckoo  "that  lived  in  a  clock!"  Griselda  gazed  round 
her  eagerly.  Where  was  the  clock?  She  could  see  nothing  in  the 
least  like  one,  only  up  on  the  wall  in  one  corner  was  what  looked 
like  a  miniature  house,  of  dark  brown  carved  wood.  It  was  not  so 
very  like  a  house,  but  it  certainly  had  a  roof — a  roof  with  deep 
projecting  eaves ;  and,  looking  closer,  yes,  it  was  a  clock,  after  all, 
only  the  figures,  Avhich  had  once  been  gilt,  had  grown  dim  with 
age,  like  everything  else,  and  the  hands  at  a  little  distance  were 
hardly  to  be  distinguished  from  the  face. 

Miss  Grizzel  stood  perfectly  still,  looking  up  at  the  clock; 
Griselda  beside  her,  in  breathless  expectation.  Presently  there 
came  a  sort  of  distant  rumbling.  Something  was  going  to  happen. 
Suddenly  two  little  doors  above  the  clock  face,  which  Griselda  had 
not  known  were  there,  sprang  open  with  a  burst  and  out  flew  a 
cuckoo,  flapped  his  wings,  and  uttered  his  pretty  cry,  "Cuckoo! 
cuckoo!  cuckoo!"  Miss  Grizzel  counted  aloud,  "Seven,  eight,  nine, 
ten.  Yes,  he  never  makes  a  mistake,"  she  added  triumpan%ly. 
"All  these  long  years  I  have  never  known  him  wrong.  There 
are  no  such  clocks  made  nowadays,  I  can  assure  you,  my  dear." 

"But  is  it  a  clock?     Isn't  he  alive?"  exclaimed  Griselda. 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  9 

"He  looked  at  me  and  nodded  his  head,  before  he  flapped  his 
wings  and  went  into  his  house  again — he  did  indeed,  aunt,"  she 
said  earnestly;  "just  like  saying,  'How  do  you  do?'  to  me." 

Again  Miss  Grizzel  smiled,  the  same  odd  yet  pleased  smile 
that  Griselda  had  seen  on  her  face  at  breakfast.  "Just  what 
Sybilla  used  to  say,"  she  murmured.  "Well,  my  dear,"  she  added 
aloud,  "it  is  quite  right  he  should  say,  'How  do  you  do?'  to  you. 
It  is  the  first  time  he  has  seen  you,  though  many  a  year  ago  he 
knew  your  dear  grandmother,  and  your  father,  too,  when  he  was 
a  little  boy.  You  will  find  him  a  good  friend,  and  one  that  can 
teach  you  many  lessons." 

"What,  Aunt  Grizzel?"  inquired  Griselda,  looking  puzzled. 

"Punctuality,  for  one  thing,  and  faithful  discharge  of  duty," 
replied  Miss  Grizzel. 

"May  I  come  to  see  the  cuckoo — to  watch  for  him  coming  out, 
sometimes?"  asked  Griselda,  who  felt  as  if  she  could  spend  all 
day  looking  up  at  the  clock,  watching  for  her  little  friend's 
appearance. 

"You  will  see  him  several  times  a  day,"  said  her  aunt,  "for 
it  is  in  this  little  room  I  intend  you  to  prepare  your  tasks.  It  is 
nice  and  quiet,  and  nothing  to  disturb  you,  and  close  to  the  room 
where  your  Aunt  Tabitha  and  I  usually  sit." 

So  saying,  Miss  Grizzel  opened  a  second  door  in  the  little 
ante-room,  and,  to  Griselda's  surprise,  at  the  foot  of  a  short  flight 
of  stairs  through  another  door,  half  open,  she  caught  sight  of  her 
Aunt  Tabitha,  knitting  quietly  by  the  fire,  in  the  room  in  which 
they  had  breakfasted. 

"What  a  very  funny  house  it  is,  Aunt  Grizzel,"  she  said,  as 
she  followed  her  aunt  down  the  steps.  "Every  room  has  so  many 
doors,  and  you  come  back  to  where  you  were  just  when  you  think 
you  are  ever  so  far  off.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  find  my  way 
about." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will,  my  dear,  very  soon,"  said  her  aunt  en- 
couragingly. 


10  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"She  is  very  kind,"  thought  Griselda;  "but  I  wish  she 
wouldn't  call  my  lessons  tasks.  It  makes  them  sound  so  dread- 
fully hard.  But,  anyway,  I'm  glad  I'm  to  do  them  in  the  room 
where  that  dear  cuckoo  lives." 


CHAPTER   II 

IMPATIENT  GRISELDA 

"...    fairies   but   seldom   appear; 
If  we  do  wrong  we  must  expect 
That  it  will  cost  us  dear!" 

It  was  all  very  well  for  a  few  days.  Griselda  found  plenty 
to  amuse  herself  with  while  the  novelty  lasted,  enough  to  prevent 
her  missing  very  badly  the  home  she  had  left  "over  the  sea,"  and 
the  troop  of  noisy  merry  brothers  who  teased  and  petted  her.  Of 
course  she  missed  them,  but  not  "dreadfully."  She  was  neither 
homesick  nor  "dull." 

It  was  not  quite  such  smooth  sailing  when  lessons  began. 
She  did  not  dislike  lessons;  in  fact,  she  had  always  thought  she 
was  rather  fond  of  them.  But  the  having  to  do  them  alone  was 
not  lively,  and  her  teachers  were  very  strict.  The  worst  of  all 
was  the  writing  and  arithmetic  master,  a  funny  old  man  who 
wore  knee-breeches  and  took  snuff,  and  called  her  aunt  "Madame," 
bowing  formally  whenever  he  addressed  her.  He  screwed  Gris- 
elda up  into  such  an  unnatural  attitude  to  write  her  copies,  that 
she  really  felt  as  if  she  would  never  come  straight  and  loose  again; 
and  the  arithmetic  part  of  his  instructions  was  even  worse.  Oh! 
what  sums  in  addition  he  gave  her!  Griselda  had  never  been 
partial  to  sums,  and  her  rather  easy-going  governess  at  home  had 

not,  to  tell  the  truth,  been  partial  to  them  either.     And  Mr. 

I  can't  remember  the  little  old  gentleman's  name.  Suppose  we 
call  him  Mr.  Kneebreeches — Mr.  Kneebreeches,  when  he  found 
this  out,  conscientiously  put  her  back  to  the  very  beginning. 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  11 

It  was  dreadful,  really.  He  came  twice  a  week,  and  the 
days  he  didn't  come  were  as  bad  as  those  he  did,  for  he  left  her 
a  whole  row  I  was  going  to  say,  but  you  couldn't  call  Mr.  Knee- 
breeches'  addition  sums  "rows,"  they  were  far  too  fat  and  wide 
across  to  be  so  spoken  of! — whole  slatefuls  of  these  terrible  moun- 
tains of  figures  to  climb  wearily  to  the  top  of.  And  not  to  climb 
once  up  merely.  The  terrible  thing  was  Mr.  Kneebreeches'  favour- 
ite method  of  what  he  called  "proving."  I  can't  explain  it — it 
is  far  beyond  my  poor  powers — but  it  had  something  to  do 
Avith  cutting  off  the  top  line,  after  you  had  added  it  all  up  and 
had  actually  done  the  sum,  you  understand — cutting  off  the  top 
line  and  adding  the  long  rows  up  again  without  it,  and  then  join- 
ing it  on  again  somewhere  else. 

"I  wouldn't  mind  so  much,"  said  poor  Griselda,  one  day,  "if 
it  was  any  good.  But  you  see,  Aunt  Grizzel,  it  isn't.  For  I'm 
just  as  likely  to  do  the  proving  wrong  as  the  sum  itself — more 
likely,  for  I'm  always  so  tired  when  I  get  to  the  proving — and 
so  all  that's  proved  is  that  something's  wrong,  and  I'm  sure  that 
isn't  any  good,  except  to  make  me  cross." 

"Hush!"  said  her  aunt  gravely.  "That  is  not  the  way  for  a 
little  girl  to  speak.  Improve  these  golden  hours  of  youth,  Gris- 
elda; they  will  never  return." 

"I  hope  not,"  muttered  Griselda,  "if  it  means  doing  sums." 

Miss  Grizzel  fortunately  was  a  little  deaf;  she  did  not  hear 
this  remark.    Just  then  the  cuckoo  clock  struck  eleven. 

"Good  little  cuckoo,"  said  Miss  Grizzel.  "What  an  example 
he  sets  you.  His  life  is  spent  in  the  faithful  discharge  of  duty;" 
and  so  saying  she  left  the  room. 

The  cuckoo  was  still  telling  the  hour — eleven  took  a  good 
while.  It  seemed  to  Griselda  that  the  bird  repeated  her  aunt's 
last  words.  "Faith — ful,  dis — charge,  of — your,  du — ty,"  he  said, 
"faith— ful." 

"You  horrid  little  creature!"  exclaimed  Griselda  in  a  passion; 
"what  business  have  you  to  mock  me?" 


12  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

She  seized  a  book,  the  first  that  came  to  hand,  and  flung 
it  at  the  bird  who  was  just  beginning  his  eleventh  cuckoo.  He 
disappeared  with  a  snap,  disappeared  without  flapping  his  wings, 
or,  as  Griselda  always  fancied  he  did,  giving  her  a  friendly  nod, 
and  in  an  instant  all  was  silent. 

Griselda  felt  a  little  frightened.  What  had  she  done?  She 
looked  up  at  the  clock.  It  seemed  just  the  same  as  usual,  the 
cuckoo's  doors  closely  shut,  no  sign  of  any  disturbance.  Could  it 
have  been  her  fancy  only  that  he  had  sprung  back  more  hastily 
than  he  would  have  done  but  for  her  throwing  the  book  at  him? 
She  began  to  hope  so,  and  tried  to  go  on  with  her  lessons.  But 
it  was  no  use.  Though  she  really  gave  her  best  attention  to  the 
long  addition  sums,  and  found  that  by  so  doing  she  managed 
them  much  better  than  before,  she  could  not  feel  happy  or  at 
ease.  Every  few  minutes  she  glanced  up  at  the  clock,  as  if  ex- 
pecting the  cuckoo  to  come  out,  though  she  knew  quite  well  there 
was  no  chance  of  his  doing  so  till  twelve  o'clock,  as  it  was  only 
the  hours,  not  the  half  hours  and  quarters,  that  he  told. 

"I  wish  it  was  twelve  o'clock,"  she  said  to  herself  anxiously 
more  than  once. 

If  only  the  clock  had  not  been  so  very  high  up  on  the  wall, 
she  would  have  been  tempted  to  climb  up  and  open  the  little 
doors,  and  peep  in  to  satisfy  herself  as  to  the  cuckoo's  condition 
But  there  was  no  possibility  of  this.  The  clock  was  far,  very  far 
above  her  reach,  and  there  was  no  high  piece  of  furniture  standing 
near,  upon  which  she  could  have  climbed  to  get  it.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done  but  to  wait  for  twelve  o'clock. 

And,  after  all,  she  did  not  wait  for  twelve  o'clock,  for  just 
about  half-past  eleven,  Miss  Grizzel's  voice  was  heard  calling  to 
her  to  put  on  her  hat  and  cloak  quickly,  and  come  out  to  walk  up 
and  down  the  terrace  with  her. 

"It  is  fine  just  now,"  said  Miss  Grizzel,  "but  there  is  a  pros- 
pect of  rain  before  long.  You  must  leave  your  lessom  for  the 
present,  and  finish  them  in  the  afternoon." 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  13 

"I  have  finished  them,"  said  Griselda,  meekly. 

"All?"  inquired  her  aunt. 

"Yes,  all,"  replied  Griselda. 

"Ah,  well,  then,  this  afternoon,  if  the  rain  holds  off,  we  shall 
drive  to  Merrybrow  Hall,  and  inquire  for  the  health  of  your  dear 
godmother,  Lady  Lavander,"  said  Miss  Grizzel. 

Poor  Griselda!  There  were  few  things  she  disliked  more 
than  a  drive  with  her  aunts.  They  went  in  the  old  yellow  chariot, 
with  all  the  windows  up,  and  of  course  Griselda  had  to  sit  with 
her  back  to  the  horses,  which  made  her  very  uncomfortable  when 
she  had  no  air,  and  had  to  sit  still  for  so  long. 

Merrybrow  Hall  was  a  large  house,  quite  as  old  and  much 
grander,  but  not  nearly  so  wonderful  as  the  home  of  Griselda's 
aunts.  It  was  six  miles  off,  and  it  took  a  very  long  time  indeed 
to  drive  there  in  the  rumbling  old  chariot,  for  the  old  horses  were 
fat  and  wheezy,  and  the  old  coachman  fat  and  wheezy  too.  Lady 
Lavander  was,  of  course,  old  too — very  old  indeed,  and  rather 
grumpy  and  very  deaf.  Miss  Grizzel  and  Miss  Tabitha  had  the 
greatest  respect  for  her;  she  always  called  them  "My  dear,"  as  if 
they  were  quite  girls,  and  they  listened  to  all  she  said  as  if  her 
words  were  of  gold.  For  some  mysterious  reason  she  had  been 
invited  to  be  Griselda's  godmother;  but,  as  she  had  never  shown 
her  any  proof  of  affection  beyond  giving  her  a  prayer-book,  and 
hoping,  whenever  she  saw  her,  that  she  was  "a  good  little  miss," 
Griselda  did  not  feel  any  particular  cause  for  gratitude  to  her. 

The  drive  seemed  longer  and  duller  than  ever  this  afternoon, 
but  Griselda  bore  it  meekly;  and  when  Lady  Lavander,  as  usual, 
expressed  her  hopes  about  her,  the  little  girl  looked  down  mod- 
estly, feeling  her  cheeks  grow  scarlet.  "I  am  not  a  good  little 
girl  at  all,"  she  felt  inclined  to  call  out.  "I'm  very  bad  and  cruel. 
I  believe  I've  killed  the  dear  little  cuckoo." 

What  would  the  three  old  ladies  have  thought  if  she  had 
called  it  out?  As  it  was,  Lady  Lavander  patted  her  approvingly, 
said  she  loved  to  see  young  people  modest  and  humble-minded, 


14  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

and  gave  her  a  slice  of  very  highly-spiced,  rather  musty  ginger- 
bread, which  Griselda  couldn't  bear. 

All  the  way  home  Griselda  felt  in  a  fevex-  of  impatience  to 
rush  up  to  the  ante-room  and  see  if  the  cuckoo  was  all  right  again. 
It  was  late  and  dark  when  the  chariot  at  last  stopped  at  the  door 
of  the  old  house.  Miss  Grizzel  got  out  slowly,  and  still  more 
slowly  Miss  Tabitha  followed  her.  Griselda  was  obliged  to  re- 
strain herself  and  move  demurely. 

"It  is  past  your  supper-time,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Grizzel. 
"Go  up  at  once  to  your  room,  and  Dorcas  shall  bring  some  supper 
to  you.    Late  hours  are  bad  for  young  people." 

Griselda  obediently  wished  her  aunts  good-night,  and  went 
quietly  upstairs.  But  once  out  of  sight,  at  the  first  landing,  she 
changed  her  pace.  She  turned  to  the  left  instead  of  to  the  right, 
which  led  to  her  own  room,  and  flew  rather  than  ran  along  the 
dimly-lighted  passage,  at  the  end  of  which  a  door  led  into  the 
great  saloon.  She  opened  the  door.  All  was  quite  dark.  It  was 
impossible  to  fly  or  run  across  the  great  saloon !  Even  in  daylight 
this  would  have  been  a  difficult  matter.  Griselda  felt  her  way 
as  best  she  could,  past  the  Chinese  cabinet  and  the  pot-pourri  jar, 
till  she  got  to  the  ante-room  door.  It  was  open,  and  now,  know- 
ing her  way  better,  she  hurried  in.  But  what  was  the  use?  All 
was  silent,  save  the  tick-tick  of  the  euckoo  clock  in  the  corner. 
Oh,  if  only  the  cuckoo  would  come  out  and  call  the  hour  as  usual, 
what  a  weight  would  be  lifted  off  Griselda's  heart! 

She  had  no  idea  what  o'clock  it  was.  It  might  be  close  to 
the  hour,  or  it  might  be  just  past  it.  She  stood  listening  for  a  few 
minutes,  then  hearing  Miss  Grizzel's  voice  in  the  distance,  she  felt 
that  she  dared  not  stay  any  longer,  and  turned  to  feel  her  way  out 
of  the  room  again.  Just  as  she  got  to  the  door  it  seemed  to  her 
that  something  softly  brushed  her  cheek,  and  a  very,  very  faint 
"cuckoo"  sounded  as  it  were  in  the  air  close  to  her. 

Startled,  but  not  frightened,  Griselda  stood  perfectly  still. 

"Cuckoo,"  she  said,  softly.    But  there  was  no  answer. 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  15 

Again  the  tones  of  Miss  Grizzel's  voice  coming  upstairs 
reached  her  ear. 

"I  must  go,"  said  Griselda;  and  finding  her  way  across  the 
saloon  without,  by  great  good  luck,  tumbling  against  any  of  the 
many  breakable  treasures  with  which  it  was  filled,  she  flew  down 
the  long  passage  again,  reaching  her  own  room  just  before  Dorcas 
appeared  with  her  supper. 

Griselda  slept  badly  that  night.  She  was  constantly  dream- 
ing of  the  cuckoo,  fancying  she  heard  his  voice,  and  then  waking 
with  a  start  to  find  it  was  only  fancy.  She  looked  pale  and  heavy- 
eyed  when  she  came  down  to  breakfast  the  next  morning;  and  her 
Aunt  Tabitha,  who  was  alone  in  the  room  when  she  entered, 
began  immediately  asking  her  what  was  the  matter. 

"I  am  sure  you  are  going  to  be  ill,  child,"  she  said  nervously. 
"Sister  Grizzel  must  give  you  some  medicine.  I  wonder  what 
would  be  the  best.  Tansy  tea  is  an  excellent  thing  when  one  has 
taken  cold,  or " 

But  the  rest  of  Miss  Tabitha's  sentence  was  never  heard,  for 
at  this  moment  Miss  Grizzel  came  hurriedly  into  the  room — her 
cap  awry,  her  shawl  disarranged,  her  face  very  pale.  I  hardly 
think  any  one  had  ever  seen  her  so  discomposed  before. 

"Sister  Tabitha!"  she  exclaimed,  "what  can  be  going  to  hap- 
pen?   The  cuckoo  clock  has  stopped." 

"The  cuckoo  clock  has  stopped!"  repeated  Miss  Tabitha, 
.holding  up  her  hands;  "impossible!" 

"But  it  has,  or  rather  I  should  say — dear  me,  I  am  so  upset 
I  cannot  explain  myself — the  cuckoo  has  stopped.  The  clock  is 
going  on,  but  the  cuckoo  has  not  told  the  hours,  and  Dorcas  is  of 
opinion  that  he  left  off  doing  so  yesterday.  What  can  be  going 
to  happen?    What  shall  we  do?" 

"What  can  we  do?"  said  Miss  Tabitha.  "Should  we  send  for 
the  watch-maker?" 

Miss  Grizzel  shook  her  head. 

"  'Twould  be  worse  than  useless.  Were  we  to  search  the  world 


16  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

over,  we  could  find  no  one  to  put  it  right.  Fifty  years  and  more, 
Tabitha,  fifty  years  and  more,  it  has  never  missed  an  hour!  We 
are  getting  old,  Tabitha,  our  day  is  nearly  over;  perhaps  'tis  to 
remind  us  of  this." 

Miss  Tabitha  did  not  reply.  She  was  weeping  silently.  The 
old  ladies  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  presence  of  their  niece, 
but  Griselda  could  not  bear  to  see  their  distiess.  She  finished  her 
breakfast  as  quickly  as  she  could,  and  left  the  room. 

On  her  way  upstairs  she  met  Dorcas. 

"Have  you  heard  what  has  happened,  little  missie?"  said  the 
old  servant. 

"Yes,"  replied  Griselda. 

"My  ladies  are  in  great  trouble,"  continued  Dorcas,  who 
seemed  inclined  to  be  more  communicative  than  usual,  "and  no 
wonder.    For  fifty  years  that  clock  has  never  gone  wrong." 

"Can't  it  be  put  right?"  asked  the  child. 

Dorcas  shook  her  head. 

"No  good  would  come  of  interfering,"  she  said.  "What 
must  be,  must  be.  The  luck  of  the  house  hangs  on  that  clock. 
Its  maker  spent  a  good  part  of  his  life  over  it,  and  his  last  words 
were  that  it  would  bring  good  luck  to  the  house  that  owned  it, 
but  that  trouble  would  follow  its  silence.  It's  my  belief,"  she 
added  solemnly,  "that  it's  a  fairy  clock,  neither  more  nor  less,  for 
good  luck  it  has  brought  there's  no  denying.  There  are  no  cows 
like  ours,  missie — their  milk  is  a  proverb  hereabouts;  there  are  no 
hens  like  ours  for  laying  all  the  year  round;  there  are  no  roses 
like  ours.  And  there's  always  a  friendly  feeling  in  this  house, 
and  always  has  been.  'Tis  not  a  house  for  wrangling  and  jan- 
gling, and  sharp  words.  The  'good  people'  can't  stand  that. 
Nothing  drives  them  away  like  ill-tefmper*or  anger." 

Griselda's  conscience  gave  her  a  sharp  prick.  Could  it  be  her 
doing  that  trouble  was  coming  upon  the  old  house?  What  a  pun- 
ishment for  a  moment's  fit  of  ill-temper. 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  17 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  that  way,  Dorcas,"  she  said;  "it 
makes  me  so  unhappy." 

"What  a  feeling  heart  the  child  has !"  said  the  old  servant  as 
she  went  on  her  way  downstairs.  "It's  true — she  is  very  like  Miss 
Sybilla." 

That  day  was  a  very  weary  and  sad  one  for  Griselda.  She 
was  oppressed  by  a  feeling  she  did  not  understand.  She  knew  she 
had  done  wrong,  but  she  had  sorely  repented  it,  and  "I  do  think 
the  cuckoo  might  have  come  back  again,"  she  said  to  herself,  "if  he 
is  a  fairy;  and  if  he  isn't,  it  can't  be  true  what  Dorcas  says." 

Her  aunts  made  no  allusion  to  the  subject  in  her  presence, 
and  almost  seemed  to  have  forgotten  that  she  had  known  of  their 
distress.  They  were  more  grave  and  silent  than  usual,  but  other- 
wise things  went  on  in  their  ordinary  way.  Griselda  spent  the 
morning  "at  her  tasks,"  in  the  ante-room,  but  was  thankful  to 
get  away  from  the  tick-tick  of  the  clock  in  the  corner  and  out  into 
the  garden. 

But  there,  alas!  it  was  just  as  bad.  The  rooks  seemed  to 
know  that  something  was  the  matter;  they  set  to  work  making 
such  a  chatter  immediately  Griselda  appeared  that  she  felt  in- 
clined to  run  back  into  the  house  again. 

"I  am  sure  they  are  talking  about  me,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"Perhaps  they  are  fairies  too.  I  am  beginning  to  think  I  don't 
like  fairies." 

She  was  glad  when  bed-time  came.  It  was  a  sort  of  reproach 
to  her  to  see  her  aunts  so  pale  and  troubled;  and  though  she  tried 
to  persuade  herself  that  she  thought  them  very  silly,  she  could 
not  throw  off  the  uncomfortable  feeling. 

She  was  so  tired  when  she  went  to  bed — tired  in  the  disagree- 
able way  that  comes  from  a  listless,  uneasy  day — that  she  fell 
asleep  at  once  and  slept  heavily.  When  she  woke,  which  she  did 
suddenly,  and  with  a  start,  it  was  still  perfectly  dark,  like  the 
first  morning  that  she  had  wakened  in  the  old  house.  It  seemed 
to   her   that   she   had  not   wakened   of   herself — something    had 


18  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

roused  her.  Yes!  there  it  was  again,  a  very,  very  soft  distant 
"cuckoo."  Was  it  distant?  She  could  not  tell.  Almost  she  could 
have  fancied  it  was  close  to  her. 

"If  it's  that  cuckoo  come  back  again,  I'll  catch  him!"  ex- 
claimed Griselda. 

She  darted  out  of  bed,  felt  her  way  to  the  door,  which  was 
closed,  and  opening  it  let  in  a  rush  of  moonlight  from  the  un- 
shuttered passage  window.  In  another  moment  her  little  bare 
feet  were  pattering  along  the  passage  at  full  speed,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  great  saloon. 

For  Griselda's  childhood  among  the  troop  of  noisy  brothers 
had  taught  her  one  lesson — she  was  afraid  of  nothing.  Or  rather 
perhaps  I  should  say  she  had  never  learnt  that  there  was  anything 
to  be  afraid  of!    And  is  there? 


CHAPTER   III 

OBEYING   ORDERS 

"Little    girl,    thou   must    thy    part    fulfil, 
If  we're  to  take  kindly  to  ours: 
Then  pull  up  the  weeds  with  a  will, 
And  fairies  will  cherish  the  flowers." 

There  was  moonlight,  though  not  so  much,  in  the  saloon  and 
the  ante-room,  too;  for  though  the  windows,  like  those  in  Gris- 
elda's bedroom,  had  the  shutters  closed,  there  was  a  round  part 
at  the  top,  high  up,  which  the  shutters  did  not  reach  to,  and  in 
crept,  through  these  clear  uncovered  panes,  quite  as  many  moon- 
beams, you  may  be  sure,  as  could  find  their  way. 

Griselda,  eager  though  she  was,  could  not  help  standing  still 
a  moment  to  admire  the  effect. 

"It  looks  prettier  with  the  light  coming  in  at  those  holes  at 
the  top  than  even  if  the  shutters  were  open,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"How  goldy-silvery  the  cabinet  looks;  and,  yes,  I  do  declare,  the 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  19 

mandarins  are  nodding!  I  wonder  if  it  is  out  of  politeness  to  me, 
or  does  Aunt  Grizzel  come  in  last  thing  at  night  and  touch  them 
to  make  them  keep  nodding  till  morning?  I  suppose  they're  a 
sort  of  policemen  to  the  palace ;  and  I  dare  say  there  are  all  sorts 
of  beautiful  things  inside.  How  I  should  like  to  see  all  through 
it!" 

But  at  this  moment  the  faint  tick-tick  of  the  cuckoo  clock  in 
the  next  room,  reaching  her  ear,  reminded  her  of  the  object  of  this 
midnight  expedition  of  hers.    She  hurried  into  the  ante-room. 

It  looked  darker  than  the  great  saloon,  for  it  had  but  one 
window.  But  through  the  uncovered  space  at  the  top  of  this 
window  there  penetrated  some  brilliant  moonbeams,  one  of  which 
lighted  up  brightly  the  face  of  the  clock  with  its  queer  overhang- 
ing eaves. 

Griselda  approached  it  and  stood  below,  looking  up. 

"Cuckoo,"  she  said  softly — very  softly. 

But  there  was  no  reply. 

"Cuckoo,"  she  repeated  rather  more  loudly.  "Why  won't 
you  speak  to  me?  I  know  you  are  there,  and  you're  not  asleep, 
for  I  heard  your  voice  in  my  own  room.  Why  won't  you  come 
out,  cuckoo?" 

"Tick-tick"  said  the  clock,  but  there  was  no  other  reply. 

Griselda  felt  ready  to  cry. 

"Cuckoo,"  she  said  reproachfully,  "I  didn't  think  you  were 
so  hard-hearted.  I  have  been  so  unhappy  about  you,  and  I  was 
so  pleased  to  hear  your  voice  again,  for  I  thought  I  had  killed 
you,  or  hurt  you  very  badly;  and  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you, 
cuckoo.  I  was  sorry  the  moment  I  had  done  it,  dreadfully  sorry. 
Dear  cuckoo,  won't  you  forgive  me?" 

There  was  a  little  sound  at  last — a  faint  coming  sound,  and 
by  the  moonlight  Griselda  saw  the  doors  open,  and  out  flew  the 
cuckoo.  He  stood  still  for  a  moment,  looked  round  him  as  it  were, 
then  gently  flapped  his  wings,  and  uttered  his  usual  note — 
"Cuckoo." 


20  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

Griselda  stood  in  breathless  expectation,  but  in  her  delight 
she  could  not  help  very  softly  clapping  her  hands. 

The  cuckoo  cleared  his  throat.  You  never  heard  such  a  funny 
little  noise  as  he  made ;  and  then,  in  a  very  clear,  distinct,  but  yet 
"cuckoo-y"  voice,  he  spoke. 

"Griselda,"  he  said,  "are  you  truly  sorry?" 

"I  told  you  I  was,"  she  replied.  "But  I  didn't  feel  so  very 
naughty,  cuckoo.  I  didn't,  really.  I  was  only  vexed  for  one 
moment,  and  when  I  threw  the  book  I  seemed  to  be  a  very  little 
in  fun,  too.  And  it  made  me  so  unhappy  when  you  went  away, 
and  my  poor  aunts  have  been  dreadfully  unhappy  too.  If  you 
hadn't  come  back  I  should  have  told  them  to-morrow  what  I  had 
done.  I  would  have  told  them  before,  but  I  was  afraid  it  would 
have  made  them  more  unhappy.  I  thought  I  had  hurt  you  dread- 
fully." 

"So  you  did,"  said  the  cuckoo. 

"But  you  look  quite  well,"  said  Griselda. 

"It  was  my  feelings,"  replied  the  cuckoo;  "and  I  couldn't 
help  going  away.    I  have  to  obey  orders  like  other  people." 

Griselda  stared.    "How  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"Never  mind.  You  can't  understand  at  present,"  said  the 
cuckoo.  "You  can  understand  about  obeying  your  orders,  and 
you  see,  when  you  don't  things  go  wrong." 

"Yes,"  said  Griselda  humbly,  "they  certainly  do.  But, 
cuckoo,"  she  continued,  "I  never  used  to  get  into  tempers  at  home 
— hardly  never,  at  least;  and  I  liked  my  lessons  then,  and  I  never 
was  scolded  about  them." 

"What's  wrong  here,  then?"  said  the  cuckoo.  "It  isn't  often 
that  things  go  wrong  in  this  house." 

"That's  what  Dorcas  says,"  said  Griselda.  "It  must  be  with 
my  being  a  child — my  aunts  and  the  house  and  everything  have 
got  out  of  children's  ways." 

"About  time  they  did,"  remarked  the  cuckoo  drily. 

"And  so,"  continued  Griselda,  "it  is  really  very  dull.    I  have 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  21 

lots  of  lessons,  but  it  isn't  so  much  that  I  mind.  It  is  that  I've 
no  one  to  play  with." 

"There's  something  in  that,"  said  the  cuckoo.  He  flapped  his 
wings  and  was  silent  for  a  minute  or  two.  "I'll  consider  about  it," 
he  observed  at  last. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Griselda,  not  exactly  knowing  what  else 
to  say. 

"And  in  the  meantime,"  continued  the  cuckoo,  "you'd  better 
obey  present  orders  and  go  back  to  bed." 

"Shall  I  say  good-night  to  you,  then?"  asked  Griselda  some- 
what timidly. 

"You're  quite  welcome  to  do  so,"  replied  the  cuckoo.  "Why 
shouldn't  j^ou?" 

"You  see  I  wasn't  sure  if  you  would  like  it,"  returned  Gris- 
elda, "for  of  course  you're  not  like  a  person,  and — and — I've  been 
told  all  sorts  of  queer  things  about  what  fairies  like  and 
don't  like." 

"Who  said  I  was  a  fairy?"  inquired  the  cuckoo. 

"Dorcas  did,  and,  of  course,  my  own  common  sense  did  too," 
replied  Griselda.  "You  must  be  a  fairy — you  couldn't  be  any- 
thing else." 

"I  might  be  a  fairyfied  cockoo,"  suggested  the  bird. 

Griselda  looked  puzzled. 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said,  "and  I  don't  think  it  could 
make  much  difference.  But  whatever  you  are,  I  wish  you  would 
tell  me  one  thing." 

"What?"  said  the  cuckoo. 

"I  want  to  know,  now  that  you've  forgiven  me  for  throwing 
the  book  at  you,  have  you  come  back  for  good?" 

"Certainly  not  for  evil,"  replied  the  cuckoo. 

Griselda  gave  a  little  wriggle.  "Cuckoo,  you're  laughing 
at  me,"  she  said.  "I  mean,  have  you  come  back  to  stay  and 
cuckoo  as  usual  and  make  my  aunts  happy  again?" 


22  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"You'll  see  in  the  morning,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "Now  go 
off  to  bed." 

"Good-night,"  said  Griselda,  "and  thank  you,  and  please 
don't  forget  to  let  me  know  when  you've  considered." 

"Cuckoo,  cuckoo,"  was  her  little  friend's  reply.  Griselda 
thought  it  was  meant  for  good-night,  but  the  fact  of  the  matter 
was  that  at  that  exact  second  of  time  it  was  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning. 

She  made  her  way  back  to  bed.  She  had  been  standing 
some  time,  talking  to  the  cuckoo,  but,  though  it  was  now  well  on 
in  November,  she  did  not  feel  the  least  cold,  nor  sleepy!  She 
felt  as  happy  and  light-hearted  as  possible,  and  she  wished  it 
was  morning,  that  she  might  get  up.  Yet  the  moment  she  laid 
her  little  brown  curly  head  on  the  pillow,  she  fell  asleep;  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  just  as  she  dropped  off  a  soft  feathery  wing 
brushed  her  cheek  gently  and  a  tiny  "Cuckoo"  sounded  in  her  ear. 

When  she  woke  it  was  bright  morning,  really  bright  morn- 
ing, for  the  wintry  sun  was  already  sending  some  clear  yellow 
rays  out  into  the  pale  gray-blue  sky. 

"It  must  be  late,"  thought  Griselda,  when  she  had  opened 
the  shutters  and  seen  how  light  it  was.  "I  must  have  slept  a 
long  time.  I  feel  so  beautifully  unsleepy  now.  I  must  dress 
quickly — how  nice  it  will  be  to  see  my  aunts  look  happy  again! 
I  don't  even  care  if  they  scold  me  for  being  late." 

But,  after  all.  it  was  not  so  much  later  than  usual;  it  was 
only  a  much  brighter  morning  than  they  had  had  for  some  time. 
Griselda  did  dress  herself  very  quickly,  however.  As  she  went 
downstairs  two  or  three  of  the  clocks  in  the  house,  for  there  Avere 
several,  were  striking  eight.  These  clocks  must  have  been  a 
little  before  the  right  time,  for  it  was  not  till  they  had  again 
relapsed  into  silence  that  there  rang  out  from  the  ante-room 
the  clear  sweet  tones,  eight  times  repeated,  of  "Cuckoo." 

Miss  Grizzel  and  Miss  Tabitha  were  already  at  the  breakfast- 
table,  but  they  received  their  little  niece  most  graciously.   Nothing 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  23 

was  said  about  the  clock,  however,  till  about  half-way  through 
the  meal,  when  Griselda,  full  of  eagerness  to  know  if  her  aunts 
were  aware  of  the  cuckoo's  return,  could  restrain  herself  no 
longer. 

"Aunt  Grizzel,"  she  said,  "isn't  the  cuckoo  all  right  again?" 

"Yes,  my  dear.  I  am  delighted  to  say  it  is,"  replied  Miss 
Grizzel. 

"Did  you  get  it  put  right,  Aunt  Grizzel?"  inquired  Griselda, 
slyly. 

"Little  girls  should  not  ask  so  many  questions,"  replied  Miss 
Grizzel,  mysteriously.  "It  is  all  right  again,  and  that  is  enough. 
During  fifty  years  that  cuckoo  has  never,  till  yesterday,  missed 
an  hour.  If  you,  in  your  sphere,  my  dear,  do  as  well  during 
fifty  years,  you  won't  have  done  badly." 

"No,  indeed,  }'ou  won't  have  done  badly,"  repeated  Miss 
Tabitha. 

But  though  the  two  old  ladies  thus  tried  to  improve  the  occa- 
sion by  a  little  lecturing,  Griselda  could  see  that  at  the  bottom  of 
their  hearts  they  were  both  so  happy  that,  even  if  she  had  been 
very  naughty  indeed,  they  could  hardly  have  made  up  their  minds 
to  scold  her. 

She  was  not  at  all  inclined  to  be  naughty  this  day.  She 
had  something  to  think  about  and  look  forward  to,  which  made 
her  quite  a  different  little  girl,  and  made  her  take  heart  in  doing 
her  lessons  as  well  as  she  possibly  could. 

"I  wonder  when  the  cuckoo  will  have  considered  enough 
about  my  having  no  one  to  play  with?"  she  said  to  herself,  as 
she  was  walking  up  and  down  the  terrace  at  the  back  of  the  house. 

"Caw,  caw!"  screamed  a  rook  just  over  her  head,  as  if  in 
answer  to  her  thought. 

Griselda  looked,  up  at  him. 

"Your  voice  isn't  half  so  pretty  as  the  cuckoo's,  Mr.  Rook," 
she  said.  "All  the  same,  I  dare  say  I  should  make  friends  with 
you,  if  I  understood  what  you  meant.     How  funny  it  would  be 


24  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

to  know  all  the  languages  of  the  birds  and  the  beasts,  like  the 
prince  in  the  fairy  tale!  I  wonder  if  I  should  wish  for  that, 
if  a  fairy  gave  me  a  wish?  No,  I  don't  think  I  would.  I'd  far 
rather  have  the  fairy  carpet  that  would  take  you  anywhere  you 
liked  in  a  minute.  I'd  go  to  China  to  see  if  all  the  people  there 
looked  like  Aunt  Grizzel's  mandarins;  and  I'd  first  of  all,  of 
course,  go  to  fairyland." 

"You  must  come  in  now,  little  missie,"  said  Dorcas's  voice. 
"Miss  Grizzel  says  you  have  had  play  enough,  and  there's  a 
nice  fire  in  the  ante-room  for  you  to  do  your  lessons  by." 

"Play!"  repeated  Griselda  indignantly,  as  she  turned  to 
follow  the  old  servant.  "Do  you  call  walking  up  and  down  the 
terrace  'play,'  Dorcas?  I  mustn't  loiter  even  to  pick  a  flower, 
if  there  were  any,  for  fear  of  catching  cold,  and  I  mustn't  run 
for  fear  of  overheating  myself.  I  declare,  Dorcas,  if  I  don't 
have  some  play  soon,  or  something  to  amuse  me,  I  think  I'll 
run  away." 

"Nay,  nay,  missie,  don't  talk  like  that.  You'd  never  do 
anything  so  naughty,  and  you  so  like  Miss  Sybilla,  who  was 
so  good." 

"Dorcas,  I'm  tired  of  being  told  I'm  like  Miss  Sybilla,"  said 
Griselda,  impatiently.  "She  was  my  grandmother;  no  one  would 
like  to  be  told  they  were  like  their  grandmother.  It  makes  me 
feel  as  if  my  face  must  be  all  screwy  up  and  wrinkly,  and  as  if 
I  should  have  spectacles  on  and  a  wig." 

"That  is  not  like  what  Miss  Sybilla  was  when  I  first  saw 
her,"  said  Dorcas.  "She  was  younger  than  you,  missie,  and  as 
pretty  as  a  fairy." 

"Was  she?"  exclaimed  Griselda,  stopping  short. 

"Yes,  indeed  she  was.  She  might  have  been  a  fairy,  so 
sweet  she  was  and  gentle — and  yet  so  merry.  Every  creature 
loved  her;  even  the  animals  about  seemed  to  know  her,  as  if  she 
was  one  of  themselves.  She  brought  good  luck  to  the  house,  and 
it  was  a  sad  day  when  she  left  it." 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  25 

"I  thought  you  said  it  was  the  cuckoo  that  brought  good 
luck?"  said  Griselda. 

"Well,  so  it  was.  The  cuckoo  and  Miss  Sybilla  came  here 
the  same  day.  It  was  left  to  her  by  her  mother's  father,  with 
whom  she  had  lived  since  she  was  a  baby,  and  when  he  died  she 
came  here  to  her  sisters.  She  wasn't  own  sister  to  my  ladies, 
you  see,  missie.  Her  mother  had  come  «from  Germany,  and  it 
was  in  some  strange  place  there,  where  her  grandfather  lived,  that 
the  cuckoo  clock  was  made.  They  make  wonderful  clocks  there, 
I've  been  told,  but  none  more  wonderful  than  our  cuckoo,  I'm 
sure." 

"No,  I'm  sure  not,"  said  Griselda,  softly.  "Why  didn't  Miss 
Sybilla  take  it  with  her  when  she  was  married  and  went  away?" 

"She  knew  her  sisters  were  so  fond  of  it.  It  was  like  a 
memory  of  her  left  behind  for  them.  It  was  like  a  part  of  her. 
And  do  you  know,  missie,  the  night  she  died — she  died  soon  after 
your  father  was  born,  a  year  after  she  was  married — for  a  whole 
hour,  from  twelve  to  one,  that  cuckoo  went  on  cuckooing  in  a  soft, 
sad  way,  like  some  living  creature  in  trouble.  Of  course,  we  did 
not  know  anything  was  wrong  with  "her,  and  folks  said  something 
had  caught  some  of  the  springs  of  the  works;  but  I  didn't  think 
so,  and  never  shall.    And " 

But  here  Dorcas's  reminiscences  were  abruptly  brought  to 
a  close  by  Miss  Grizzel's  appearance  at  the  other  end  of  the 
terrace. 

"Griselda,  what  are  you  loitering  so  for?  Dorcas,  you  should 
have  hastened,  not  delayed  Miss  Griselda." 

So  Griselda  was  hurried  off  to  her  lessons,  and  Dorcas  to 
her  kitchen.  But  Griselda  did  not  much  mind.  She  had  plenty 
to  think  of  and  wonder  about,  and  she  liked  to  do  her  lessons  in 
the  ante-room,  with  the  tick-tock  of  the  clock  in  her  ears,  and 
the  feeling  that  perhaps  the  cuckoo  was  watching  her  through 
some  invisible  peep-hole  in  his  closed  doors. 

"And  if  he  sees,"  thought  Griselda,  "if  he  sees  how  hard 


26  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

I  am  trying  to  do  my  lessons  well,  it  will  perhaps  make  him  be 
quick  about  'considering.'  " 

So  she  did  try  very  hard.  And  she  didn't  speak  to  the 
cuckoo  when  he  came  out  to  say  it  was  four  o'clock.  She  was 
busy,  and  he  was  busy.  She  felt  it  was  better  to  wait  till  he  gave 
her  some  sign  of  being  ready  to  talk  to  her  again. 

For  fairies,  you  know,  children,  however  charming,  are  some- 
times rather  queer  to  have  to  do  with.  They  don't  like  to  be 
interfered  with,  or  treated  except  with  very  great  respect,  and 
they  have  their  own  ideas  about  what  is  proper  and  what  isn't, 
I  can  assure  you. 

I  suppose  it  was  with  working  so  hard  at  her  lessons- — most 
people  would  say  it  was  with  having  been  up  the  night  before, 
running  about  the  house  in  the  moonlight;  but  as  she  had  never 
felt  so  "fresh"  in  her  life  as  when  she  got  up  that  morning,  it 
could  hardly  have  been  that — that  Griselda  felt  so  tired  and 
sleepy  that  evening,  she  could  hardly  keep  her  eyes  open.  She 
begged  to  go  to  bed  quite  half  an  hour  earlier  than  usual,  which 
made  Miss  Tabitha  afraid  again  that  she  was  going  to  be  ill.  But 
there  is  nothing  better  for  children  than  to  go  to  bed  early,  even 
if  they  are  going  to  be  ill,  Miss  Grizzel  told  her  to  say  good-night, 
and  to  ask  Dorcas  to  give  her  a  wine-glassful  of  elderberry  wine, 
nice  and  hot  after  she  was  in  bed. 

Griselda  had  no  objections  to  the  elderberry  wine,  though 
she  felt  she  was  having  it  on  false  pretences.  She  certainly  did 
not  need  it  to  send  her  to  sleep,  for  almost  before  her  head 
touched  the  pillow  she  was  as  sound  as  a  top.  She  had  slept  a 
good  long  while,  when  again  she  wakened  suddenly — just  as  she 
had  done  the  night  before,  and  again  with  the  feeling  that  some- 
thing had  wakened  her.  And  the  queer  thing  was  that  the  mo- 
ment she  was  awake  she  felt  so  very  awake — she  had  no  inclina- 
tion to  stretch  and  yawn  and  hope  it  wasn't  quite  time  to  get  up, 
and  think  how  nice  and  warm  bed  was,  and  how  cold  it  was  out- 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  27 

side!  She  sat  straight  up,  and  peered  out  into  the  darkness, 
feeling  quite  ready  for  an  adventure. 

"Is  it  you,  cuckoo?"  she  said  softly. 

There  was  no  answer,  but  listening  intently,  the  child  fan- 
cied she  heard  a  faint  rustling  or  fluttering  in  the  corner  of  the 
room  by  the  door.  She  got  up  and,  feeling  her  way,  opened  it, 
and  the  instant  she  had  done  so  she  heard,  a  few  steps  only  in 
front  of  her  it  seemed,  the  familiar  notes,  very,  very  soft  and 
whispered,  "Cuckoo,  cuckoo." 

It  went  on  and  on,  down  the  passage,  Griselda  trotting  after. 
There  was  no  moon  to-night,  heavy  clouds  had  quite  hidden  it, 
and  outside  the  rain  was  falling  heavily.  Griselda  could  hear  it 
on  the  window-panes,  through  the  closed  shutters  and  all.  But 
dark  as  it  was,  she  made  her  way  along  without  any  difficulty, 
down  the  passage,  across  the  great  saloon,  in  through  the  ante- 
room, guided  only  by  the  little  voice  now  and  then  to  be  heard 
in  front  of  her.  She  came  to  a  standstill  right  before  the  clock, 
and  stood  there  for  a  minute  or  two  patiently  waiting. 

She  had  not  very  long  to  wait.  There  came  the  usual  mur- 
muring sound,  then  the  doors  'above  the  clock  face  opened — -she 
heard  them  open,  it  was  far  too  dark  to  see — and  in  his  ordinary 
voice,  clear  and  distinct  (it  was  just  two  o'clock,  so  the  cuckoo 
was  killing  two  birds  with  one  stone,  telling  the  hour  and  greet- 
ing Griselda  at  once),  the  bird  sang  out,  "Cuckoo,  cuckoo." 

"Good  evening,  cuckoo,"  said  Griselda,  when  he  had  finished. 

"Good  morning,  you  mean,"  said  the  cuckoo. 

"Good  morning,  then,  cuckoo,"  said  Griselda.  "Have  you 
considered  about  me,  cuckoo?" 

The  cuckoo  cleaned  his  throat. 

"Have  you  learnt  to  -obey  orders  yet,  Griselda?"  he  inquired. 

"I'm  trying,"  replied  Griselda.  "But  you  see,  cuckoo,  I've 
not  had  very  long  to  learn  in — it  was  only  last  night  you  told 
me,  you  know." 

The  cuckoo  sighed. 


28  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"You've  a  great  deal  to  learn,  Griselda." 

"I  dare  say  I  have,"  she  said.  "But  I  can  tell  you  one 
thing,  cuckoo — whatever  lessons  I  have,  I  couldn't  ever  have  any 
worse  than  those  addition  sums  of  Mr.  Kneebreeches'.  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  about  that,  for  to-day,  do  you  know, 
cuckoo " 

"Yesterday,"  corrected  the  cuckoo.  "Always  be  exact  in 
your  statements,  Griselda." 

"Well,  yesterday,  then,"  said  Griselda,  rather  tartly;  "though 
when  you  know  quite  well  what  I  mean,  I  don't  see  that  you 
need  be  so  very  particular.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  I  tried  and 
tried,  but  still  they  were  fearful.     They  were,  indeed." 

"You've  a  great  deal  to  learn,  Griselda,"  repeated  the 
cuckoo. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  say  that  so  often,"  said  Griselda.  "I 
thought  you  were  going  to  play  with  me." 

"There's  something  in  that,"  said  the  cuckoo,  "there's  some- 
thing in  that.  I  should  like  to  talk  about  it.  But  we  could  talk 
more  comfortably  if  you  would  come  up  here  and  sit  beside  me." 

Griselda  thought  her  friend  must  be  going  out  of  his  mind. 

"Sit  beside  you  up  there!"  she  exclaimed.  "Cuckoo,  how 
could  I?    I'm  far,  far  too  big." 

"Big!"  returned  the  cuckoo.  "What  do  you  mean  by  big? 
It's  all  a  matter  of  fancy.  Don't  you  know  that  if  the  world 
and  everything  in  it,  counting  yourself  of  course,  was  all  made 
little  enough  to  go  into  a  walnut,  you'd  never  find  out  the 
difference?" 

"Wouldn't  I?"  said  Griselda,  feeling  rather  muddled;  "but, 
not  counting  myself,  cuckoo,  I  would  then,  wouldn't  I?" 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  cuckoo  hastily,  "you've  a  great  deal 
to  learn,  and  one  thing  is,  not  to  argue.  Nobody  should  argue; 
it's  a  shocking  bad  habit,  and  ruins  the  digestion.  Come  up  here 
and  sit  beside  me  comfortably.  Catch  hold  of  the  chain;  you'll 
find  you  can  manage  if  you  try." 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  29 

"But  it'll  stop  the  clock,"  said  Griselda.  "Aunt  Grizzel 
said  I  was  never  to  touch  the  weights  or  the  chains." 

"Stuff,"  said  the  cuckoo;  "it  won't  stop  the  clock.  Catch 
hold  of  the  chains  and  swing  yourself  up.  There  now — I  told 
you  you  could  manage  it." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE  NODDING  MANDARINS 
"We're  all  nodding,  nid-nid-nodding." 

How  she  managed  it  she  never  knew;  but,  somehow  or 
other,  it  was  managed.  She  seemed  to  slide  up  the  chain  just 
as  easily  as  in  a  general  way  she  would  have  slidden  down, 
only  without  any  disagreeable  anticipation  of  a  bump  at  the  end 
of  the  journey.  And  when  she  got  to  the  top  how  wonderfully 
different  it  looked  from  anything  she  could  have  expected!  The 
doors  stood  open,  and  Griselda  found  them  quite  big  enough,  or 
herself  quite  small  enough — which  it  was  she  couldn't  tell,  and  as 
it  was  all  a  matter  of  fancy  she  decided  not  to  trouble  to  inquire — 
to  pass  through  quite  comfortably. 

And  inside  there  was  the  most  charming  little  snuggery 
imaginable.  It  was  something  like  a  saloon  railway  carriage — 
it  seemed  to  be  all  lined  and  carpeted  and  everything,  with  rich 
mossy  red  velvet;  there  was  a  little  round  table  in  the  middle 
and  two  arm-chairs,  on  one  of  which  sat  the  cuckoo — "quite  like 
other  people,"  thought  Griselda  to  herself — while  the  other,  as 
he  pointed  out  to  Griselda  by  a  little  nod,  was  evidently  intended 
for  her. 

"Thank  you,"  said  she,  sitting  down  on  the  chair  as  she 
spoke. 

"Are  you  comfortable?"  inquired  the  cuckoo. 

"Quite,"  replied  Griselda,  looking  about  her  with  great  satis- 


30  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

faction.  "Are  all  cuckoo  clocks  like  this  when  you  get  up  inside 
them?"  she  inquired.  "I  can't  think  how  there's  room  for  this 
dear  little  place  between  the  clock  and  the  wall.  Is  it  a  hole  cut 
out  of  the  wall  on  purpose,  cuckoo?" 

"Hush!"  said  the  cuckoo,  "we've  got  other  things  to  talk 
about.  First,  shall  I  lend  you  one  of  my  mantles?  You  may 
feel  cold." 

"I  don't  just  now,"  replied  Griselda;  "but  perhaps  I  might." 

She  looked  at  her  little  bare  feet  as  she  spoke  and  wondered 
why  they  weren't  cold,  for  it  was  very  chilblainy  weather. 

The  cuckoo  stood  up,  and  with  one  of  his  claws  reached  from 
a  corner  where  it  was  hanging  a  cloak  which  Griselda  had  not 
before  noticed.  For  it  was  hanging  wrong  side  out,  and  the 
lining  was  red  velvet,  very  like  what  the  sides  of  the  little  room 
were  covered  with,  so  it  was  no  wonder  she  had  not  noticed  it. 

Had  it  been  hanging  the  right  side  out  she  must  have  done  so ; 
this  side  was  so  very  wonderful! 

It  was  all  feathers — feathers  of  every  shade  and  colour,  but 
beautifully  worked  in,  somehow,  so  as  to  lie  quite  smoothly  and 
evenly,  one  colour  melting  away  into  another  like  those  in  a  prism, 
so  that  you  could  hardly  tell  where  one  began  and  another  ended. 

"What  a  lovely  cloak!"  said  Griselda,  wrapping  it  round  her 
and  feeling  even  more  comfortable  than  before,  as  she  watched 
the  rays  of  the  little  lamp  in  the  roof — I  think  I  was  forgetting 
to  tell  you  that  the  cuckoo's  boudoir  was  lighted  by  a  dear  little 
lamp  set  into  the  red  velvet  roof  like  a  pearl  in  a  ring — playing 
softly  on  the  brilliant  colours  of  the  feather  mantle. 

"It's  better  than  lovely,"  said  the  cuckoo,  "as  you  shall  see. 
Now,  Griselda,"  he  continued,  in  the  tone  of  one  coming  to 
business — "now,  Griselda,  let  us  talk." 

"We  have  been  talking,"  said  Griselda,  "ever  so  long.  I  am 
very  comfortable.  When  you  say  'let  us  talk'  like  that,  it  makes 
me  forget  all  I  wanted  to  say.  Just  let  me  sit  still  and  say  what- 
ever comes  into  mv  head." 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  31 

"That  won't  do,"  said  the  cuckoo;  "we  must  have  a  plan 
of  action." 

"A  what?"  said  Griselda. 

"You  see  you  have  a  great  deal  to  learn,"  said  the  cuckoo 
triumphantly.    "You  don't  understand  what  I  say." 

"But  I  didn't  come  up  here  to  learn,"  said  Griselda;  "I  can 
do  that  down  there";  and  she  nodded  her  head  in  the  direction  of 
the  ante-room  table.     "I  want  to  play." 

"Just  so,"  said  the  cuckoo;  "that's  what  I  want  to  talk  about. 
What  do  you  call  'play' — blind-man's-buff  and  that  sort  of  thing?" 

"No,"  said  Griselda,  considering.  "I'm  getting  rather  too 
big  for  that  kind  of  play.  Besides,  cuckoo,  you  and  I  alone 
couldn't  have  much  fun  at  blindman's-buff ;  there'd  be  only  me 
to  catch  you  or  you  to  catch  me." 

"Oh,  we  could  easily  get  more,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "The  man- 
darins would  be  pleased  to  join." 

"The  mandarins!"  repeated  Griselda.  "Why,  cuckoo,  they're 
not  alive!     How  could  they  play?" 

The  cuckoo  looked  at  her  gravely  for  a  minute,  then  shook 
his  head. 

"You  have  a  great  deal  to  learn,"  he  said  solemnly.  "Don't 
you  know  that  everything's  alive?" 

"No,"  said  Griselda,  "I  don't;  and  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean,  and  I  don't  think  I  want  to  know  what  you  mean.  I  want 
to  talk  about  playing." 

"Well,"  said  the  cuckoo,  "talk." 

"What  I  call  playing,"  pursued  Griselda,  "is — I  have 
thought  about  it  now,  you  see — is  being  amused.  If  you  will 
amuse  me,  cuckoo,  I  will  count  that  you  are  playing  with  me." 

"How  shall  I  amuse  you?"  inquired  he. 

"Oh,  that's  for  you  to  find  out !"  exclaimed  Griselda.  "You 
might  tell  me  fairy  stories,  you  know:  if  you're  a  fairy  you  should 
know  lots;  or — oh,  yes,  of  course  that  would  be  far  nicer — if  you 
are  a  fairy  you  might  take  me  with  you  to  fairyland." 


32  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

Again  the  cuckoo  shook  his  head. 

"That,"  said  he,  "I  cannot  do." 

"Why  not?"  said  Griselda.  "Lots  of  children  have  been 
there." 

"I  doubt  it,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "Some  may  have  been,  but  not 
lots.  And  some  may  have  thought  they  had  been  there  who  hadn't 
really  been  there  at  all.  And  as  to  those  who  have  been  there, 
you  may  be  sure  of  one  thing — they  were  not  taken,  they  found 
their  own  way.  ~No  one  ever  was  taken  to  fairyland— to  the  real 
fairyland.  They  may  have  been  taken  to  the  neighbouring  coun- 
tries, but  not  to  fairyland  itself." 

"And  how  is  one  ever  to  find  one's  own  way  there?"  asked 
Griselda. 

"That  I  cannot  tell  you  either,"  replied  the  cuckoo.  "There 
are  many  roads  there;  you  may  find  yours  some  day.  And  if 
ever  you  do  find  it,  be  sure  you  keep  what  you  see  of  it  well  swept 
and  clean,  and  then  you  may  see  further  after  a  while.  Ah,  yes, 
there  are  many  roads  and  many  doors  into  fairyland!" 

"Doors!"  cried  Griselda.  "Are  there  any  doors  into  fairy- 
land in  this  house?" 

"Several,"  said  the  cuckoo;  ""but  don't  waste  your  time  look- 
ing for  them  at  present.     It  would  be  no  use." 

"Then  how  will  you  amuse  me?"  inquired  Griselda,  in  a 
rather  disappointed  tone. 

"Don't  you  care  to  go  anywhere  except  to  fairyland?"  said  the 
cuckoo. 

"Oh  yes,  there  are  lots  of  places  I  wouldn't  mind  seeing.  Not 
geography  sort  of  places — it  would  be  just  like  lessons  to  go  to 
India  and  Africa  and  all  those  places — but  queer  places,  like 
the  mines  where  the  goblins  make  diamonds  and  precious  stones, 
and  the  caves  down  under  the  sea  where  the  mermaids  live. 
And — oh,  I've  just  thought — now  I'm  so  nice  and  little,  I  would 
like  to  go  all  over  the  mandarins'  palace  in  the  great  saloon." 

"That  can  be  easily  managed,"  said  the  cuckoo;  "but — ex- 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  33 

cuse  me  for  an  instant,"  he  exclaimed  suddenly.  He  gave  a  spring 
forward  and  disappeared.  Then  Griselda  heard  his  voice  outside 
the  doors.     "Cuckoo,  cuckoo,  cuckoo."     It  was  three  o'clock. 

The  doors  opened  again  to  let  him  through,  and  he  re- 
settled himself  on  his  chair.  "As  I  was  saying,"  he  went  on, 
"nothing  could  be  easier.  But  that  palace,  as  you  call  it,  has 
an  entrance  on  the  other  side,  as  well  as  the  One  you  know." 

"Another  door,  do  you  mean?"  said  Griselda.  "How  funny! 
Does  it  go  through  the  wall?    And  where  does  it  lead  to?" 

"It  leads,"  replied  the  cuckoo,  "it  leads  to  the  country  of  the 
Nodding  Mandarins." 

"What  fun!"  exclaimed  Griselda,  clapping  her  hands. 
"Cuckoo,  do  let  us  go  there.  How  can  we  get  down?  You  can 
fly,  but  must  I  slide  down  the  chain  again?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no,"  said  the  cuckoo,  "by  no  means.  You  have 
only  to  stretch  out  your  feather  mantle,  flap  it  as  if  it  was  wings — 
so" — he  flapped  his  own  wings  encouragingly — "wish,  and  there 
you'll  be." 

"Where?"  said  Griselda  bewilderedly. 

"Wherever  you  wish  to  be,  of  course,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "Are 
you  ready?    Here  goes." 

"Wait — wait  a  moment,"  cried  Griselda.  "Where  am  I  to 
wish  to  be?" 

"Bless  the  child!"  exclaimed  the  cuckoo.  "Where  do  you 
wish  to  be;  You  said  you  wanted  to  visit  the  country  of  the  Nod- 
ding Mandarins." 

"Yes;  but  am  I  to  wish  first  to  be  in  the  palace  in  the  great 
saloon?" 

"Certainly,"  replied  the  cuckoo.  "That  is  the  entrance  to 
Mandarin  Land,  and  you  said  you  would  like  to  see  through  it. 
So — you're  surely  ready  now?" 

"A  thought  has  just  struck  me,"  said  Griselda.  "How  will 
you  know  what  o'clock  it  is,  so  as  to  come  back  in  time  to  tell 
the  next  hour?    My  aunts  will  get  into  such  a  fright  if  you  go 


34  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

wrong  again!  Are  you  sure  we  -shall  have  time  to  go  to  the 
mandarins'  country  to-night?" 

"Time!"  repeated  the  cuckoo;  "what  is  time?  Ah,  Griselda, 
you  have  a  very  great  deal  to  leam!  What  do  you  mean  by 
time'?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Griselda,  feeling  rather  snubbed. 
"Being  slow  or  quick — I  suppose  that's  what  I  mean." 

"And  what  is  slow,  and  what  is  quick?"  said  the  cuckoo.  "All 
a  matter  of  fancjr!  If  everything  that's  been  done  since  the  world 
was  made  till  now,  was  done  over  again  in  five  minutes,  you'd 
never  know  the  difference." 

"Oh,  cuckoo,  I  wish  you  wouldn't!"  cried  poor  Griselda; 
"you're  worse  than  sums,  you  do  so  puzzle  me.  It's  like  what  you 
said  about  nothing  being  big  or  little,  -only  it's  worse.  Where 
would  all  the  days  and  hours  be  if  there  was  nothing  but  minutes? 
Oh,  cuckoo,  you  said  you'd  amuse  me,  and  you  do  nothing  but 
puzzle  me." 

"It  was  your  own  fault.  You  wouldn't  get  ready,"  said  the 
cuckoo.    "Now,  here  goes!    Flap  and  Avish." 

Griselda  flapped  and  wished.  She  felt  a  sort  of  rustle  in 
the  air,  that  was  all — then  s"he  found  herself  standing  with  the 
cuckoo  in  front  of  the  Chinese  cabinet,  the  door  of  which  stood 
open,  while  the  -mandarins  on  each  side,  nodding  politely,  seemed 
to  invite  them  to  enter.     Griselda  hesitated. 

"Go  on,"  said  the  cuckoo,  patronizingly;  "ladies  first." 

Griselda  went  on.  To  her  surprise,  inside  the  cabinet  it 
was  quite  light,  though  where  the  light  came  from  that  illumin- 
ated all  the  queer  corners  and  recesses  and  streamed  out  to  the 
front,  where  stood  the  mandarins,  she  could  not  discover. 

The  "palace"  was  not  quite  as  interesting  as  she  had  ex- 
pected. There  were  lots  of  little  rooms  in  it  opening  on  to 
balconies  commanding,  no  doubt,  a  splendid  view  of  the  great 
saloon ;  there  were  ever  so  -many  little  staircases  leading  to  more 
little  rooms  and  balconies;  but  it  all  seemed  empty  and  deserted. 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  35 

"I  don't  care  for  it,"  said  Griselda,  stopping  short  at  last; 
"it's  ;all  the  same,  and  there's  nothing  to  see.  I  thought  my 
aunts  kept  ever  so  many  beautiful  things  in  here,  and  there's 
nothing." 

"Come  along  then,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "I  didn't  expect  you'd 
care  for  the  palace  as  you  called  it,  much.  Let  us  go  out  the  other 
way." 

He  hopped  down  a  sort  of  little  staircase  near  which  they 
were  standing,  and  Griselda  followed  him  willingly  enough.  At 
the  foot  they  found  themselves  in  a  vestibule,  much  handsomer 
than  the  entrance  at  the  other  side,  and  the  cuckoo,  crossing  it, 
lifted  one  of  his  claws  and  touched  a  spring  in  the  wall.  In- 
stantly a  pair  of  large  doors  flew  open  in  the  middle,  revealing 
to  Griselda  the  prettiest  and  most  curious  sight  she  had  ever 
seen. 

A  flight  of  wide  shallow  steps  led  down  from  this  doorway 
into  a  long,  long  avenue  bordered  by  stiffly  growing  trees,  from 
the  branches  of  which  hung  innumerable  lamps  of  every  colour, 
making  a  perfect  network  of  brilliance  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach. 

"Oh,  how  lovely!"  cried  Griselda,  clapping  her  hands.  "It'll 
be  like  walking  along  a  rainbow.     Cuckoo,  come  quick." 

"Stop,"  said  the  cuckoo;  "we've  a  good  way  to  go.  There's  no 
need  to  Avalk.     Palanquin!" 

He  flapped  his  wings,  and  instantly  a  palanquin  appeared 
at  the  foot  of  the  steps.  It  was  made  of  carved  ivory,  and  borne 
by  four  Chinese-looking  figures  with  pigtails  and  bright-coloured 
jackets.  A  feeling  came  over  Griselda  that  she  was  dreaming,  or 
else  that  she  had  seen  this  palanquin  before.  She  hesitated. 
Suddenly  she  gave  a  little  jump  of  satisfaction. 

"I  know,"  she  exclaimed.  It's  exactly  like  the  one  that 
stands  under  a  glass  shade  on  Lady  Lavander's  drawing-room 
mantelpiece.  I  wonder  if  it  is  the  very  one?  Fancy  me  being 
able  to  get  into  it." 


36  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

She  looked  at  the  four  bearers.    Instantly  they  all  nodded. 

"What  do  they  mean?"  asked  Griselda,  turning  to  the  cuckoo. 

"Get  in,"  he  replied. 

"Yes,  I'm  just  going  to  get  in,"  she  said;  "but  what  do 
they  mean  when  they  nod  at  me  like  that?" 

"They  mean,  of  course,  what  I  tell  you — 'Get  in,'  "  said 
the  cuckoo. 

"Why  don't  they  say  so,  then?"  persisted  Griselda,  getting 
in,  however,  as  she  spoke. 

"Griselda,  you  have  a  very  great "  began  the  cuckoo,  but 

Griselda  interrupted  him. 

"Cuckoo,"  she  exclaimed,  "if  you  say  that  again,  I'll  jump 
out  of  the  palanquin  and  run  away  home  to  bed.  Of  course 
I've  a  great  deal  to  learn — that's  why  I  like  to  ask  questions  about 
everything  I  see.    Now,  tell  me  where  we  are  going." 

"In  the  first  place,"  said  the  cuckoo,  "are  you  comfortable?" 

"Very,"  said  Griselda,  settling  herself  down  among  the 
cushions. 

It  was  a  change  from  the  cuckoo's  boudoir.  There  were  no 
chairs  or  seats,  only  a  number  of  very,  very  soft  cushions  cov- 
ered with  green  silk.  There  were  green  silk  curtains  all  round, 
too,  which  you  could  draw  or  not  as  you  pleased,  just  by  touch- 
ing a  spring.  Griselda  stroked  the  silk  gently.  It  was  not  "fruz- 
zley"  silk,  if  you  know  what  that  means;  it  did  not  make  you 
feel  as  if  your  nails  wanted  cutting,  or  as  if  all  the  rough  places 
on  your  skin  were  being  rubbed  up  the  wrong  way;  its  soft- 
ness was  like  that  of  a  rose  or  pansy  petal. 

"What  nice  silk!"  said  Griselda.  "I'd  like  a  dress  of  it. 
I  never  noticed  that  the  palanquin  was  lined  so  nicely,"  she  con- 
tinued, "for  I  suppose  it  is  the  one  from  Lady  Lavander's  mantel- 
piece?    There  couldn't  be  two  so  exactly  like  each  other." 

The  cuckoo  gave  a  sort  of  whistle. 

"What  a  goose  you  are,  my  dear!"  he  exclaimed'  "Excuse 
me,"  he  continued,  seeing  that  Griselda  looked  rather  offended; 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  37 

"I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings,  but  you  won't  let  me  say 
the  other  thing,  you  know.  The  palanquin  from  Lady  Lavan- 
der's!  I  should  think  not.  You  might  as  well  mistake  one  of 
those  horrible  paper  roses  that  Dorcas  sticks  in  her  vases  for 
one  of  your  aunt's  Gloires  de  Dijon!  The  palanquin  from 
Lady  Lavander's — a  clumsy  human  imitation  not  worth  look- 
ing at!" 

"I  didn't  know,"  said  Griselda  humbly.  "Do  they  make 
such  beautiful  things  in  Mandarin  Land?" 

"Of  course,"  said  the  cuckoo. 

Griselda  sat  silent  for  a  minute  or  two,  but  very  soon  she 
recovered  her  spirits. 

"Will  you  please  tell  me  where  we  are  going?"  she  asked 
again. 

"You'll  see  directly,"  said  the  cuckoo;  "not  that  I  mind  tell- 
ing you.  There's  to  be  a  grand  reception  at  one  of  the  palaces 
to-night.  I  thought  you'd  like  to  assist  at  it.  It'll  give  you  some 
idea  of  what  a  palace  is  like.     By-the-by,  can  you  dance?" 

"A  little,"  replied  Griselda. 

"Ah,  well,  I  dare  say  you  will  manage.  I've  ordered  a 
court  dress  for  you.     It  will  be  all  ready  when  we  get  there." 

In  a  minute  or  two  the  palanquin  stopped.  The  cuckoo 
got  out,  and  Griselda  followed  him. 

She  found  that  they  were  at  the  entrance  to  a  very  much 
grander  palace  than  the  one  in  her  aunt's  saloon.  The  steps 
leading  up  to  the  door  were  very  wide  and  shallow,  and  covered 
with  a  gold  embroidered  carpet,  which  looked  as  if  it  would  be 
prickly  to  her  baTe  feet,  'but  Avhich,  on  the  contrary,  when  she 
trod  upon  it,  felt  softer  than  the  softest  moss.  She  could  see 
very  little  besides  the  carpet,  for  at  each  side  of  the  steps  stood 
rows  and  rows  of  mandarins,  all  something  like,  but  a  great  deal 
grander  than  the  pair  outside  her  aunt's  cabinet;  and  as  the 
cuckoo  hopped  and  Griselda  walked  up  the  staircase,  they  all,  in 
turn,  row  by  row,  began  solemnly  to  nod.    It  gave  them  the  look 


38  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

of  a  field  of  very  high  grass,  through  which  any  one  passing 
leaves  for  the  moment  a  trail,  till  all  the  heads  bob  up  again  into 
their  places. 

"What  do  they  mean?"  whispered  Griselda. 

"It's  a  royal  salute,"  said  the  cuckoo. 

"A  salute!"  said  Griselda.  "I  thought  that  meant  kissing 
or  guns." 

"Hush"  said  the  cuckoo,  for  by  this  time  they  had  arrived 
at  the  top  of  the  staircase;  "you  must  be  dressed  now." 

Two  mandariny-looking  young  ladies,  with  porcelain  faces 
and  three-cornered  head-dresses,  stepped  forward  and  led  Griselda 
into  a  small  ante-room,  where  lay  waiting  for  her  the  most  mag- 
nificent dress  you  ever  saw.  But  how  do  you  think  they  dressed 
her?  It  was  all  by  nodding.  They  nodded  to  the  blue  and  silver 
embroidered  jacket,  and  in  a  moment  it  had  fitted  itself  on  to  her. 
They  nodded  to  the  splendid  scarlet  satin  skirt,  made  very  short 
in  front  and  very  long  behind,  and  before  Griselda  knew  where 
she  was,  it  was  adjusted  quite  correctly.  They  nodded  to  the 
head-dress,  and  the  sashes,  and  the  necklaces  and  bracelets,  and 
forthwith  they  all  arranged  themselves.  Last  of  all,  they  nodded 
to  the  dearest,  sweetest  little  pair  of  high-heeled  shoes  imagin- 
able— all  silver,  and  blue,  and  gold,  and  scarlet,  and  everything 
mixed  up  together,  only  they  were  rather  a  stumpy  shape  about 
the  toes,  and  Griselda's  bare  feet  were  encased  in  them,  and,  to 
her  surprise,  quite  comfortably  so. 

"They  don't  hurt  me  a  bit,"  she  said  aloud;  "yet  they  didn't 
look  the  least  the  shape  of  my  foot." 

But  her  attendants  only  nodded;  and  turning  round,  she 
saw  the  cuckoo  waiting  for  her.  He  did  not  speak  either,  rather 
to  her  annoyance,  but  gravely  led  the  way  through  one  grand 
room  after  another  to  the  grandest  of  all,  where  the  entertain- 
ment was  evidently  just  about  to  begin.  And  everywhere  there 
were  mandarins,  rows  and  rows,  who  all  set  to  work  nodding  as 
fast  as  Griselda  appeared.     She  began  to  be  rather  tired  of  royal 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  39 

salutes,  and  was  glad  when,  at  last,  in  profound  silence,  the  pro- 
cession, consisting  of  the  cuckoo  and  herself,  and  about  half  a 
dozen  "mandarins,"  came  to  a  halt  before  a  kind  of  dais,  or  raised 
seat,  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 

Upon  this  dais  stood  a  chair — a  throne  of  some  kind,  Griselda 
supposed  it  to  be — and  upon  this  was  seated  the  grandest  and 
gravest  personage  she  had  yet  seen. 

"Is  he  the  king  of  the  mandarins?"  she  whispered.  But 
the  cuckoo  did  not  reply;  and  before  she  had  time  to  repeat  the 
question,  the  very  grand  and  grave  person  got  down  from  his 
seat,  and  coming  towards  her,  offered  her  his  hand,  at  the  same 
time  nodding — first  once,  then  two  or  three  times  together,  then 
once  again.  Griselda  seemed  to  know  what  he  meant.  He  was 
asking  her  to  dance. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  "I  can't  dance  very  well,  but  perhaps 
you  won't  mind." 

The  king,  if  that  was  his  title,  took  not  the  slightest  notice 
of  her  reply,  but  nodded  again — once,  then  two  or  three  times 
together,  then  once  alone,  just  as  before.  Griselda  did  not  know 
what  to  do,  when  suddenly  she  felt  something  poking  her  head. 
It  was  the  cuckoo — he  had  lifted  his  claw,  and  was  tapping  her 
head  to  make  her  nod.  So  she  nodded — once,  twice  together,  then 
once — that  appeared  to  be  enough.  The  king  nodded  once  again; 
an  invisible  band  suddenly  struck  up  the  loveliest  music,  and  off 
they  set  to  the  places  of  honour  reserved  for  them  in  the  centre 
of  the  room,  where  all  the  mandarins  were  assembling. 

What  a  dance  that  was!  It  began  like  a  minuet  and  ended 
something  like  the  hay -makers.  Griselda  had  not  the  least  idea 
what  the  figures  or  steps  were,  but  it  did  not  matter.  If  she  did 
not  know,  her  shoes  or  something  about  her  did;  for  she  got 
on  famously.  The  music  was  lovely — "so  the  mandarins  can't 
be  deaf,  though  they  are  dumb,"  thought  Griselda,  "which  is 
one  good  thing  about  them."  The  king  seemed  to  enjoy  it  as 
much  as  she  did,  though  he  never  smiled  or  laughed;  any  one 


40  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLES  WORTH 

could  have  seen  he  liked  it  by  the  way  he  whirled  and  twirled 
himself  about.  And  between  the  figures,  when  they  stopped  to 
rest  for  a  little,  Griselda  got  on  very  well  too.  There  was  no 
conversation,  or  rather,  if  there  was,  it  was  all  nodding. 

So  Griselda  nodded  too,  and  though  she  did  not  know  what 
her  nods  meant,  the  king  seemed  to  understand  and  be  quite 
pleased;  and  when  they  had  nodded  enough  the  music  struck  up 
again,  and  off  they  set,  harder  than  before. 

And  every  now  and  then  tiny  little  mandariny  boys  appeared 
with  trays  filled  with  the  most  delicious  fruits  and  sweetmeats. 
Griselda  was  not  a  greedy  child,  but  for  once  in  her  life  she 
really  did  feel  rather  so.  I  cannot  possibly  describe  these  de- 
licious things;  just  think  of  whatever  in  all  your  life  was  the 
most  "lovely"  thing  you  ever  ate,  and  you  may  be  sure  they 
tasted  like  that.  Only  the  cuckoo  would  not  eat  any,  which  rather 
distressed  Griselda.  He  walked  about  among  the  dancers,  ap- 
parently quite  at  home;  and  the  mandarins  did  not  seem  at  all 
surprised  to  see  him,  though  he  did  look  rather  odd,  being  nearly, 
if  not  quite,  as  big  as  any  of  them.  Griselda  hoped  he  was  en- 
joying herself,  considering  that  she  had  to  thank  him  for  all 
the  fun  she  was  having,  but  she  felt  a  little  conscience-stricken 
when  she  saw  that  he  wouldn't  eat  anything. 

"Cuckoo,"  she  whispered;  she  dared  not  talk  out  loud — it 
would  have  seemed  so  remarkable,  you  see.  "Cuckoo,"  she  said, 
very,  very  softly,  "I  wish  you  would  eat  something.  You'll  be 
so  tired  and  hungry." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  the  cuckoo;  and  you  can't  think  how 
pleased  Griselda  was  at  having  succeeded  in  making  him  speak. 
"It  isn't  my  way.     I  hope  you  are  enjoying  yourself?" 

"Oh,  very  much,"  said  Griselda.     "I " 

"Hush!"  said  the  cuckoo;  and  looking  up,  Griselda  saw  a 
number  of  mandarins,  in  a  sort  of  procession,  coming  their  way. 

When  they  got  up  to  the  cuckoo  they  set  to  work  nodding, 
two  or  three  at  a  time,  more  energetically  than  usual.    When  they 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  41 

stopped,  the  cuckoo  nodded  in  return,  and  then  hopped  off  towards 
the  middle  of  the  room. 

"They're  very  fond  of  good  music,  you  see,"  he  whispered  as 
he  passed  Griselda;  "and  they  don't  often  get  it." 


CHAPTER  V 

PICTURES 

"And  she  is  always  beautiful, 
And  always  is  eighteen!" 

When  he  got  to  the  middle  of  the  room  the  cuckoo  cleared 
his  throat,  flapped  his  wings,  and  began  to  sing.  Griselda  was 
quite  astonished.  She  had  had  no  idea  that  her  friend  was  so 
accomplished.  It  wasn't  "cuckooing"  at  all;  it  was  real  singing, 
like  that  of  the  nightingale  or  the  thrush,  or  like  something  pret- 
tier than  either.  It  made  Griselda  think  of  woods  in  summer, 
and  of  tinkling  brooks  flowing  through  them,  with  the  pretty 
brown  pebbles  sparkling  up  through  the  water;  and  then  it  made 
her  think  of  something  sad — she  didn't  know  what ;  perhaps  it  was 
of  the  babes  in  the  wood  and  the  robins  covering  them  up  with 
leaves — and  then  again,  in  a  moment,  it  sounded  as  if  all  the 
merry  elves  and  sprites  that  ever  were  heard  of  had  escaped  from 
fairyland,  and  were  rolling  over  and  over  with  peals  of  rollicking 
laughter.  And  at  last,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  song  came  to  an 
end. 

"Cuckoo!  cuckoo!  cuckoo!"  rang  out  three  times,  clear  and 
shrill.  The  cuckoo  flapped  his  wings,  made  a  bow  to  the  man- 
darins, and  retired  to  his  old  corner. 

There  was  no  buzz  of  talk,  as  is  usual  after  a  performance 
has  come  to  a  close,  but  there  was  a  great  buzz  of  nodding,  and 
Griselda,  wishing  to  give  the  cuckoo  as  much  praise  as  she  could, 
nodded  as  hard  as  any  of  them.  The  cuckoo  really  looked  quite 
shy  at  receiving  so  much  applause.    But  in  a  minute  or  two  the 


42  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

music  struck  up  and  the  dancing  began  again — one,  two,  three: 
it  seemed  a  sort  of  mazurka  this  time,  which  suited  the  man- 
darins very  well,  as  it  gave  them  a  chance  of  nodding  to  mark 
the  time. 

Griselda  had  once  learnt  the  mazurka,  so  she  got  on  even 
better  than  before — only  she  would  have  liked  it  more  if  her 
shoes  had  had  sharper  toes;  they  looked  so  stumpy  when  she 
tried  to  point  them.  All  the  same,  it  was  very  good  fun,  and  she 
was  not  too  well  pleased  when  she  suddenly  felt  the  little  sharp 
tap  of  the  cuckoo  on  her  head,  and  heard  him  whisper — 

"Griselda,  it's  time  to  go." 

"Oh  dear,  why?"  she  asked.  "I'm  not  a  bit  tired.  Why  need 
we  go  yet?" 

"Obeying  orders,"  said  the  cuckoo;  and  after  that,  Griselda 
dared  not  say  another  word.  It  was.  very  nearly  as  bad  as  being 
told  she  had  a  great  deal  to  learn. 

"Must  I  say  good-bye  to  the  king  and  all  the  people?"  she 
inquired;  but  before  the  cuckoo  had  time  to  answer,  she  gave  a 
little  squeal.     "Oh,  cuckoo,"  she  cried,  "you've  trod  on  my  foot." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  cuckoo. 

"I  must  take  off  my  shoe;  it  does  so  hurt,"  she  went  on. 

"Take  it  off,  then,"  said  the  cuckoo. 

Griselda  stooped  to  take  off  her  shoe.     "Are  we  going  home 

in  the  pal ?"  she  began  to  say;  but  she  never  finished  the 

sentence,  for  just  as  she  had  got  her  shoe  off  she  felt  the  cuckoo 
throw  something  round  her.     It  was  the  feather  mantle. 

And  Griselda  knew  nothing  more  till  she  opened  her  eyes 
the  next  morning,  and  saw  the  first  early  rays  of  sunshine  peep- 
ing in  through  the  chinks  of  the  closed  shutters  of  her  little 
bedroom. 

She  rubbed  her  eyes,  and  sat  up  in  bed.  Could  it  have  been 
a  dream. 

"What  could  have  made  me  fall  asleep  so  all  of  a  sudden?" 
she  thought.     "I  wasn't  the  least  sleepy  at  the  mandarins'  ball. 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  43 

What  fun  it  was!  I  believe  that  cuckoo  made  me  fall  asleep  on 
purpose  to  make  me  fancy  it  was  a  dream.     Was  it  a  dream?" 

She  began  to  feel  confused  and  doubtful,  when  suddenly  she 
felt  something  hurting  her  arm,  like  a  little  lump  in  the  bed.  She 
felt  with  her  hand  to  see  if  she  could  smooth  it  away,  and  drew 
out — one  of  the  shoes  belonging  to  her  court  dress!  The  very 
one  she  had  held  in  her  hand  at  the  moment  the  cuckoo  spirited 
her  home  again  to  bed. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Cuckoo!"  she  exclaimed,  "you  meant  to  play  me  a 
trick,  but  you  haven't  succeeded,  you  see." 

She  jumped  out  of  bed  and  unfastened  one  of  the  window- 
shutters,  then  jumped  in  again  to  admire  the  little  shoe  in  comfort. 
It  was  even  prettier  than  she  "had  thought  it  at  the  ball.  She  held 
it  up  and  looked  at  it.  It  was  about  the  size  of  the  first  joint  of 
her  little  finger.  "To  think  that  I  should  have  been  dancing  with 
you  on  last  night!"  she  said  to  the  shoe.  "And  yet  the  cuckoo 
says  being  big  or  little  is  all  a  matter  of  fancy.  I  wonder  what 
he'll  think  of  to  amuse  me  next?" 

She  was  still  holding  up  the  shoe  and  admiring  it  when 
Dorcas  came  with  the  hot  water. 

"Look,  Dorcas,"  she  said. 

"Bless  me,  it's  one  of  the  shoes  off  the  Chinese  dolls  in  the 
saloon,"  exclaimed  the  old  servant.  "How  ever  did  you  get  that, 
missie?    Your  aunts  wouldn't  be  pleased." 

"It  just  isn't  one  of  the  Chinese  dolls'  shoes,  and  if  you  don't 
believe  me,  you  can  go  and  look  for  yourself,"  said  Griselda.  "It's 
my  very  own  shoe,  and  it  was  given  me  to  my  own  self." 

Dorcas  looked  at  her  curiously,  but  said  no  more,  only  as 
she  was  going  out  of  the  room  Griselda  heard  her  saying  some- 
thing about  "so  very  like  Miss  Sybilla." 

"I  wonder  what  'Miss  Sybilla'  was  like?"  thought  Griselda. 
"I  have  a  good  mind  to  ask  the  cuckoo.  He  seems  to  have  known 
her  very  well." 

It  was  not  for  some  days  that  Griselda  had  a  chance  of  asking 


44  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

the  cuckoo  anything.  She  saw  and  heard  nothing  of  him — noth- 
ing, that  is  to  say,  but  his  regular  appearance  to  tell  the  hours  as 
usual. 

"I  suppose,"  thought  Griselda,  "he  thinks  the  mandarins' 
ball  was  fun  enough  to  last  me  a  good  while.  It  really  was  very 
good-natured  of  him  to  take  me  to  it,  so  I  mustn't  grumble." 

A  few  days  after  this  poor  Griselda  caught  cold.  It  was  not 
a  very  bad  cold,  I  confess,  but  her  aunts  made  rather  a  fuss  about 
it.  They  wanted  her  to  stay  in  bed,  but  to  this  Griselda  so  much 
objected  that  they  did  not  insist  upon  it. 

"It  would  be  so  dull,"  she  said  piteously.  "Please  let  me 
stay  in  the  ante-room,  for  all  my  things  are  there;  and,  then, 
there's  the  cuckoo." 

Aunt  Grizzel  smiled  at  this,  and  Griselda  got  her  way.  But 
even  in  the  ante-room  it  was  rather  dull.  Miss  Grizzel  and  Miss 
Tabitha  were  obliged  to  go  out,  to  drive  all  the  way  to  Merry- 
brow  Hall,  as  Lady  Lavander  sent  a  messenger  to  say  that  she 
had  an  attack  of  influenza,  and  wished  to  see  her  friends  at  once. 

Miss  Tabitha  began  to  cry — she  was  so  tender-hearted. 

"Troubles  never  come  singly,"  said  Miss  Grizzel,  by  way  of 
consolation. 

"No,  indeed,  they  never  come  singly,"  said  Miss  Tabitha, 
shaking  her  head  and  wiping  her  eyes. 

So  off  they  set;  and  Griselda,  in  her  arm-ehair  by  the  ante- 
room fire,  with  some  queer  little  old-fashioned  books  of  her  aunts', 
which  she  had  already  read  more  than  a  dozen  times,  beside  her 
by  way  of  amusement,  felt  that  there  was  one  comfort  in  her 
troubles — she  had  escaped  the  long  weary  drive  to  her  god- 
mother's. 

But  it  was  very  dull.  It  got  duller  and  duller.  Griselda 
curled  herself  up  in  her  chair,  and  wished  she  could  go  to  sleep, 
though  feeling  quite  sure  she  couldn't,  for  she  had  stayed  in  bed 
much  later  than  usual  this  morning,  and  had  been  obliged  to 
spend  the  time  in  sleeping,  for  want  of  anything  better  to  do. 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  45 

She  looked  up  at  the  clock. 

"I  don't  know  even  what  to  wish  for,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"I  don't  feel  the  least  inclined  to  play  at  anything,  and  I  shouldn't 
care  to  go  to  the  mandarins'  again.  Oh,  cuckoo,  cuckoo,  I  am  so 
dull;  couldn't  you  think  of  anything  to  amuse  me?" 

It  was  not  near  "any  o'clock."  But  after  waiting  a  minute 
or  two,  it  seemed  to  Griselda  that  she  heard  the  soft  sound  of 
"coming"  that  always  preceded  the  cuckoo's  appearance.  She 
was  right.  In  another  moment  she  heard  his  usual  greeting, 
"Cuckoo,  cuckoo!" 

"Oh,  cuckoo!"  she  exclaimed,  "I  am  so  glad  you  have  come 
at  last.  I  am  so  dull,  and  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  lessons  this 
time.  It's  that  I've  got  such  a  bad  cold,  and  my  head's  aching, 
and  I'm  so  tired  of  reading,  all  by  myself." 

"What  would  you  like  to  do?"  said  the  cuckoo.  "You  don't 
want  to  go  to  see  the  mandarins  again?" 

"Oh  no;  I  couldn't  dance." 

"Or  the  mermaids  down  under  the  sea?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no,"  said  Griselda,  with  a  little  shiver,  "it  would 
be  far  too  cold.  I  would  just  like  to  stay  where  I  am,  if  some 
one  would  tell  me  stories.  I'm  not  even  sure  that  I  could  listen  to 
stories.    What  could  you  do  to  amuse  me,  cuckoo?" 

"Would  you  like  to  see  some  pictures?"  said  the  cuckoo.  "I 
could  show  you  pictures  without  your  taking  any  trouble." 

"Oh  yes,  that  would  be  beautiful,"  cried  Griselda.  "What 
pictures  will  you  show  me?  Oh,  I  know.  I  would  like  to  see 
the  place  where  you  were  bom — where  that  very,  very  clever 
man  made  you  and  the  clock,  I  mean." 

"Your  great-great-grandfather,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "Very 
well.  Now,  Griselda,  shut  your  eyes.  First  of  all,  I  am  going 
to  sing." 

Griselda  shut  her  eyes,  and  the  cuckoo  began  his  song.  It 
was  something  like  what  he  had  sung  at  the  mandarins'  palace, 


46  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

only  even  more  beautiful.  It  was  so  soft  and  dreamy,  Griselda 
felt  as  if  she  could  have  sat  there  for  ever,  listening  to  it. 

The  first  notes  were  low  and  murmuring.  Again  they  made 
Griselda  think  of  little  rippling  brooks  in  summer,  and  now  and 
then  there  came  a  sort  of  hum  as  of  insects  buzzing  in  the  warm 
sunshine  near.  This  humming  gradually  increased,  till  at  last 
Griselda  was  conscious  of  nothing  -more — everything  seemed  to 
be  humming,  herself  too,  till  at  last  she  fell  asleep. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes,  the  ante-room  and  everything  in 
it,  except  the  arm-chair  on  which  she  was  still  curled  up,  had 
disappeared- — melted  away  into  a  misty  cloud  all  round  her,  which 
in  turn  gradually  faded,  till  before  her  she  saw  a  scene  quite  new 
and  strange.    It  was  the  first  of  the  cuckoo's  "pictures." 

An  old,  quaint  room,  with  a  high,  carved  mantelpiece,  and 
a  bright  fire  sparkling  in  the  grate.  It  was  not  a  pretty  room — 
it  had  more  the  look  of  a  workshop  of  some  kind;  but  it  was 
curious  and  interesting.  All  round,  the  walls  were  hung  with 
clocks  and  strange  mechanical  toys.  There  was  a  fiddler  slowly 
fiddling,  a  gentleman  and  lady  gravely  dancing  a  minuet,  a  little 
man  drawing  up  water  in  a  bucket  out  of  a  glass  vase  in  which 
gold  fish  were  swimming  about — all  sorts  of  queer  figures;  and 
the  clocks  were  even  queerer.  There  was  one  intended  to  repre- 
sent the  sun,  moon,  and  planets,  with  one  face  for  the  sun  and 
another  for  the  moon,  and  gold  and  silver  stars  slowly  circling 
round  them;  there  was  another  clock  with  a  tiny  trumpeter 
perched  on  a  ledge  above  the  face,  who  blew  a  horn  for  the 
hours.  I  cannot  tell  you  half  the  strange  and  wonderful  things 
there  were. 

Griselda  was  so  intei'ested  in  looking  at  all  these  queer  ma- 
chines, that  she  did  not  for  some  time  observe  the  occupant  of 
the  room.  And  no  wonder;  he  was  sitting  in  front  of  a  little 
table,  so  perfectly  still,  much  more  still  than  the  un-living  figures 
around  him.  He  was  examining,  with  a  magnifying  glass,  some 
small  object  he  held   in  his  hand,   so  closely  and  intently  that 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  47 

Griselda,  forgetting  she  was  only  looking  at  a  "picture,"  almost 
held  her  breath  for  fear  she  should  disturb  him.  He  was  a  very 
old  man,  his  coat  was  worn  and  threadbare  in  several  places, 
looking  as  if  he  spent  a  great  part  of  his  life  in  one  position.  Yet 
he  did  not  look  poor,  and  his  face,  when  at  last  he  lifted  it,  was 
mild  and  intelligent  and  very  earnest. 

While  Griselda  was  watching  him  closely  there  came  a  soft 
tap  at  the  door,  and  a  little  girl  danced  into  the  room.  The  dear- 
est little  girl  you  ever  saw,  and  so  funnily  dressed!  Her  thick 
brown  hair,  rather  lighter  than  Griselda's,  was  tied  in  two  long 
plaits  down  her  back.  She  had  a  short  red  skirt  with  silver  braid 
round  the  bottom,  and  a  white  chemisette  with  beautiful  lace  at 
the  throat  and  .wrists,  and  over  that  again  a  black  velvet  bodice, 
also  trimmed  with  silver.  And  she  had  a  great  many  trinkets, 
necklaces,  and  bracelets,  and  ear-rings,  and  a  sort  of  little  silver 
•coronet ;  no,  it  was  not  like  a  coronet,  it  was  a  band  with  a  square 
piece  of  silver  fastened  so  as  to  stand  up  at  each  side  of  her  head 
something  like  a  horse's  blinkers,  only  they  were  not  placed  over 
her  eyes. 

She  made  quite  a  jingle  as  she  came  into  the  room,  and  the 
old  man  looked  up  with  a  smile  of  pleasure. 

"Well,  my  darling,  and  are  you  all  ready  for  your  fete?"  he 
said ;  and  though  the  language  in  which  he  spoke  was  quite  strange 
to  Griselda,  she  understood  his  meaning  perfectly  well. 

"Yes,  dear  grandfather;  and  isn't  my  dress  lovely?"  said  the 
child.  "I  should  be  so  happy  if  only  you  were  coming  too,  and 
would  get  yourself  a  beautiful  velvet  coat  like  Mynheer  van 
Huyten." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"I  have  no  time  for  such  things,  my  darling,"  he  replied; 
"and  besides,  I  am  too  old.  I  must  work — work  hard  to  make 
money  for  my  pet  when  I  am  gone,  that  she  may  not  be  depend- 
ent on  the  bounty  of  those  English  sisters." 

"But  I  won't  care  for  money  when  you  are  gone,  grand- 


48  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

father,"  said  the  child,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears.  "I  would 
rather  just  go  on  living  in  this  little  house,  and  I  am  sure  the 
neighbours  would  give  me  something  to  eat,  and  then  I  could  hear 
all  your  clocks  ticking,  and  think  of  you.  I  don't  want  you  to 
sell  all  your  wonderful  things  for  money  for  me,  grandfather. 
They  would  remind  me  of  you,  and  money  wouldn't." 

"Not  all,  Sybilla  not  all,"  said  the  old  man.  "The  best  of 
all,  the  chef-d'oeuvre  of  my  life,  shall  not  be  sold.  It  shall  be 
yours,  and  you  will  have  in  your  possession  a  clock  that  crowned 
heads  might  seek  in  vain  to  purchase." 

His  dim  old  eyes  brightened,  and  for  a  moment  he  sat  erect 
and  strong. 

"Do  you  mean  the  cuckoo  clock?"  said  Sybilla,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Yes,  my  darling,  the  cuckoo  clock,  the  crowning  work  of 
my  life — a  clock  that  shall  last  long  after  I,  and  perhaps  thou, 
my  pretty  child,  are  crumbling  into  dust;  a  clock  that  shall  last 
to  tell  my  great-grandchildren  to  many  generations  that  the  old 
Dutch  mechanic  was  not  altogether  to  be  despised." 

Sybilla  sprang  into  his  arms. 

"You  are  not  to  talk  like  that,  little  grandfather,"  she  said. 
"I  shall  teach  my  children  and  my  grandchildren  to  be  so  proud 
of  you — oh,  so  proud! — as  proud  as  I  am  of  you,  little  grand- 
father." 

"Gently,  my  darling,"  said  the  old  man,  as  he  placed  care- 
fully on  the  table  the  delicate  piece  of  mechanism  he  held  in  his 
hand,  and  tenderly  embraced  the  child.  "Kiss  me  once  again, 
my  pet,  and  then  thou  must  go ;  thy  little  friends  will  be  waiting." 

******* 

As  he  said  these  words  the  mist  slowly  gathered  again  before 
Griselda's  eyes — the  first  of  the  cuckoo's  pictures  faded  from 
her  sight. 

******* 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  49 

When  she  looked  again  the  scene  was  changed,  but  this  time 
it  was  not  a  strange  one,  though  Griselda  had  gazed  at  it  for 
some  moments  before  she  recognised  it.  It  was  the  great  saloon, 
but  it  looked  very  different  from  what  she  had  ever  seen  it.  Forty 
years  or  so  make  a  difference  in  rooms  as  well  as  in  people! 

The  faded  yellow  damask  hangings  were  rich  and  brilliant. 
There  were  bouquets  of  lovely  flowers  arranged  about  the  tables; 
wax  lights  were  sending  out  their  brightness  in  every  direction, 
and  the  room  was  filled  with  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  gay  attire. 

Among  them,  after  a  time,  Griselda  remarked  two  ladies, 
no  longer  very  young,  but  still  handsome  and  stately,  and  some- 
thing whispered  to  her  that  they  were  her  two  aunts,  Miss  Grizzel 
and  Miss  Tabitha. 

"Poor  aunts!"  she  said  softly  to  herself;  "how  old  they  have 
grown  since  then." 

But  she  did  not  long  look  at  them ;  her  attention  was  attracted 
by  a  much  younger  lady — a  mere  girl  she  seemed,  but  oh,  so 
sweet  and  pretty !  She  was.  dancing  with  a  gentleman  whose  eyes 
looked  as  if  they  saw  no  one  else,  and  she  herself  seemed  brim- 
ming over  with  youth  and  happiness.  Her  very  steps  had  joy 
in  them. 

"Well,  Griselda,"  whispered  a  voice,  which  she  knew  was 
the  cuckoo's;  "so  you  don't  like  to  be  told  you  are  like  your 
grandmother,  eh?" 

Griselda  turned  round  sharply  to  look  for  the  speaker,  but 
he  was  not  to  be  seen.  And.  when  she  turned  again,  the  picture 
of  the  great  saloon  had  faded  away. 

*  *  *  *  *  M  * 

One  more  picture. 

Griselda  looked  again.  She  saw  before  her  a  country  road 
in  full  summer  time;  the  sun  was  shining,  the  birds  were  singing, 
the  trees  covered  with  their  bright  green  leaves — everything  ap- 
peared happy  and  joyful.     But  at  last  in  the  distance  she  saw, 


50  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

slowly  approaching,  a  group  of  a  few  people,  all  walking  together, 
carrying  in  their  centre  something  long  and  narrow,  which,  though 
the  black  cloth  covering  it  Avas  almost  hidden  by  the  white  flowers 
with  which  it  was  thickly  strewn,  Griselda  knew  to  be  a  coffin. 

It  was  a  funeral  procession,  and  in  the  place  of  chief  mourner, 
with  pale,  set  face,  walked  the  same  young  man  whom  Griselda 
had  last  seen  dancing  with  the  girl  Sybilla  in  the  great  saloon. 

The  sad  group  passed  slowly  out  of  sight;  but  as  it  disap- 
peared there  fell  upon  the  ear  the  sounds  of  sweet  music,  lovelier 
far  than  she  had  heard  before — lovelier  than  the  magic  cuckoo's 
most  lovely  songs — and  somehow,  in  the  music,  it  seemed  to  the 
child's  fancy  there  were  mingled  the  soft  strains  of  a  woman's 
voice. 

"It  is  Sybilla  singing,"  thought  Griselda  dreamily,  and  with 
that  she  fell  asleep  again. 

gfc  j|t  ifc  £]&  jli  ^k,  jk 

When  she  woke  she  was  in  the  arm-chair  by  the  ante-room 
fire,  everything  around  her  looking  just  as  usual,  the  cuckoo  clock 
ticking  away  calmly  and  regularly.  Had  it  been  a  dream  only? 
Griselda  could  not  make  up  her  mind. 

"But  I  don't  see  that  it  matters  if  it  was,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"If  it  was  a  dream,  the  cuckoo  sent  it  to  me  all  the  same,  and  I 
thank  you  very  much  indeed,  cuckoo,"  she  went  on,  looking  up 
at  the  clock.  "The  last  picture  was  rather  sad,  but  still  it  was 
very  nice  to  see  it,  and  I  thank  you  very  much,  and  I'll  never  say 
again  that  I  don't  like  to  be  told  I'm  like  my  dear  pretty  grand- 
mother." 

The  cuckoo  took  no  notice  of  what  she  said,  but  Griselda 
did  not  mind.     She  was  getting  used  to  his  "ways." 

"I  expect  he  hears  me  quite  well,"  she  thought;  "and  even 
if  he  doesn't,  it's  only  civil  to  try  to  thank  him." 

She  sat  still  contentedly  enough,  thinking  over  what  she  had 
seen,  and  trying  to  make  more  "pictures"  for  herself  in  the  fire. 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  51 

Then  there  came  faintly  to  her  ears  the  sound  of  carriage  wheels, 
opening  and  shutting  of  doors,  a  little  bustle  of  arrival. 

"My  aunts  must  have  come  back,"  thought  Griselda;  and 
so  it  was.  In  a  few  minutes  Miss  Grizzel,  closely  followed  by 
Miss  Tabitha,  appeared  at  the  ante-room  door. 

"Well,  my  love,"  said  Miss  Grizzel  anxiously,  "and  how 
are  you?     Has  the  time  seemed  very  long  while  we  were  away?" 

"Oh  no,  thank  you,  Aunt  Grizzel,"  replied  Griselda,  "not 
at  all.  I've  been  quite  happy,  and  my  cold's  ever  so  much  better, 
and  my  headache's  quite  gone." 

"Come,  that  is  good  news,"  said  Miss  Grizzel.  "Not  that 
I'm  exactly  surprised,"  she  continued,  turning  to  Miss  Tabitha, 
"for  there  really  is  nothing  like  tansy  tea  for  a  feverish  cold." 

"Nothing,"  agreed  Miss  Tabitha;  "there  really  is  nothing 
like  it." 

"Aunt  Grizzel,"  said  Griselda,  after  a  few  moments'  silence, 
"was  my  grandmother  quite  young  when  she  died?" 

"Yes,  my  love,  very  young,"  replied  Miss  Grizzel  with  a 
change  in  her  voice. 

"And  was  her  husband  very  sorry?"  pursued  Griselda. 

"Heart-broken,"  said  Miss  Grizzel.  "He  did  not  live  long 
after,  and  then  you  know,  my  dear,  your  father  was  sent  to  us 
to  take  care  of.  And  noAv  he  has  sent  you — the  third  generation 
of  young  creatures  confided  to  our  care." 

"Yes,"  said  Griselda.  "My  .grandmother  died  in  the  summer, 
when  all  the  flowers  were  out ;  and  she  was  buried  in  a  pretty  coun- 
try place,  wasn't  she?" 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Grizzel,  looking  rather  bewildered. 

"And  when  she  was  a  little  girl  she  lived  with  her  grand- 
father, the  old  Dutch  mechanic,"  continued  Griselda,  uncon- 
sciously using  the  very  words  she  had  heard  in  her  vision.  "He 
was  a  nice  old  man;  and  how  clever  of  him  to  have  made  the 
cuckoo  clock,  and  such  lots  of  other  pretty,  wonderful  things.  I 
don't  wonder  little  Sybilla  loved  him;  he  was  so  good  to  her. 


52  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

But,  oh,  Aunt  Grizzel,  how  pretty  she  was  when  she  was  a  young 
lady!  That  time  that  she  danced  with  my  grandfather  in  the 
great  saloon.  And  how  very  nice  you  and  Aunt  Tabitha  looked 
then,  too." 

Miss  Grizzel  held  her  very  breath  in  astonishment;  and  no 
doubt  if  Miss  Tabitha  had  known  she  was  doing  so,  she  would 
have  held  hers  too.  But ,  Griselda  lay  still,  gazing  at  the  fire, 
quite  unconscious  of  her  aunt's  surprise. 

"Your  papa  told  you  all  these  old  stories,  I  suppose,  my 
dear,"  said  Miss  Grizzel  at  last. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Griselda  dreamily.  "Papa  never  told  me  any 
thing  like  that.  Dorcas  told  me  a  very  little,  I  think;  at  least, 
she  made  me  want  to  know,  and  I  asked  the  cuckoo,  and  then, 
you  see,  he  showed  me  it  all.    It  was  so  pretty." 

Miss  Grizzel  glanced  at  her  sister. 

"Tabitha,  my  dear,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "do  you  hear?" 

And  Miss  Tabitha,  who  really  was  not  very  deaf  when  she 
set  herself  to  hear,  nodded  in  awestruck  silence. 

"Tabitha,"  continued  Miss  Grizzel  in  the  same  tone,  "it  is 
wonderful!  Ah,  yes,  how  true  it  is,  Tabitha,  that  'there  are 
more  things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  are  dreamt  of  in  our  phil- 
osophy' "  (for  Miss  Grizzel  was  a  well-read  old  lady,  you  see) ; 
"and  from  the  very  first,  Tabitha,  we  always  had  a  feeling  that  the 
child  was  strangely  like  Sybilla." 

"Strangely  like  Sybilla,"  echoed  Miss  Tabitha. 

"May  she  grow  up  as  good,  if  not  quite  as  beautiful — that 
we  could  scarcely  expect;  and  may  she  be  longer  spared  to  those 
that  love  her,"  added  Miss  Grizzel,  bending  over  Griselda,  while 
two  or  three  tears  slowly  trickled  down  her  aged  cheeks.  "See, 
Tabitha,  the  dear  child  is  fast  asleep.  How  sweet  she  looks!  I 
trust  by  to-morrow  morning  she  will  be  quite , herself  again;  her 
cold  is  so  much  better." 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  53 

CHAPTER  VI 

RUBBED  THE  WRONG  WAY 

"For  now  and  then  there  comes  a  day 
When  everything  goes  wrong." 

Griselda's  cold  was  much  better  by  "to-morrow  morning." 
In  fact,  I  might  almost  say  it  was  quite  well. 

But  Griselda  herself  did  not  feel  quite  well,  and  saying  this 
reminds  me  that  it  is  hardly  sense  to  speak  of  a  cold  being  better 
or  well — for  a  cold's  being  "well"  means  that  it  is  not  there  at  all, 
out  of  existence,  in  short,  and  if  a  thing  is  out  of  existence  how 
can  we  say  anything  about  it?  Children,  I  feel  quite  in  a  hobble — 
I  cannot  get  my  mind  straight  about  it — please  think  it  over  and 
give  me  your  opinion.  In  the  meantime,  I  will  go  on  about 
Griselda. 

She  felt  just  a  little  ill — a  sort  of  feeling  that  sometimes  is 
rather  nice,  sometimes  "very  extremely"  much  the  reverse!  She 
felt  in  the  humour  for  being  petted,  and  having  beef-tea,  and 
jelly,  and  sponge  cake  with  her  tea,  and  for  a  day  or  two  this 
was  all  very  well.  She  was  petted,  and  she  had  lots  of  beef-tea, 
and  jelly,  and  grapes,  and  sponge  cakes,  and  everything  nice,  for 
her  aunts,  as  you  must  have  seen  by  this  time,  were  really  very, 
very  kind  to  her  in  every  way  in  which  they  understood  how  to 
be  so. 

But  after  a  few  days  of  the  continued  petting,  and  the 
beef-tea  and  the  jelly  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  it  occurred  to  Miss 
Grizzel,  who  had  a  good  large  bump  of  "common  sense,"  that  it 
might  be  possible  to  overdo  this  sort  of  thing. 

"Tabitha,"  she  said  to  her  sister,  when  they  were  sitting 
together  in  the  evening  after  Griselda  had  gone  to  bed,  "Tabitha, 
my  dear,  I  think  the  child  is  quite  well  again  now.  It  seems  to 
me  it  would  be  well  to  send  a  note  to  good  Mr.  Kneebreeches, 
to  say  that  she  will  be  able  to  resume  her  studies  the  day  after 
to-morrow." 


54  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"The  day  after  to-morrow,"  repeated  Miss  Tabitha.  "The 
day  after  to-morrow — to  say  that  she  will  be  able  to  resume  her 
studies  the  day  after  to-morrow — oh  yes,  certainly.  It  would  be 
very  well  to  send  a  note  to  good  Mr.  Kneebreeches,  my  dear 
Grizzel." 

"I  thought  you  would  agree  with  me,"  said  Miss  Grizzel, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief  (as  if  poor  Miss  Tabitha  during  all  the  last 
half-century  had  ever  ventured  to  do  anything  else),  getting  up 
to  fetch  her  writing  materials  as  she  spoke.  "It  is  such  a  satis- 
faction to  consult  together  about  what  we  do.  I  was  only  a 
little  afraid  of  being  hard  upon  the  child,  but  as  you  agree  with 
me,  I !  have  no  longer  any  misgiving." 

"Any  misgiving,  oh  dear,  no!"  said  Miss  Tabitha.  "You 
have  no  reason  for  any  misgiving,  I  am  sure,  my  dear  Grizzel." 

So  the  note  was  written  and  despatched,  and  the  next  morn- 
ing when,  about  twelve  o'clock,  Griselda  made  her  appearance 
in  the  little  drawing-room  where  her  aunts  usually  sat,  looking, 
it  must  be  confessed,  very  plump  and  rosy  for  an  invalid,  Miss 
Grizzel  broached  the  subject. 

"I  have  written  to  request  Mr.  Kneebreeches  to  resume  his 
instructions  to-morrow,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  think  you  are  quite 
well  again  now,  so  Dorcas  must  wake  you  at  your  usual  hour." 

Griselda  had  been  settling  herself  comfortably  on  a  corner  of 
the  sofa.  She  had  got  a  nice  book  to  read,  which  her  father, 
hearing  of  her  illness,  had  sent  her  by  post,  and  she  was  looking 
forward  to  the  tempting  plateful  of  jelly  which  Dorcas  had 
brought  her  for  luncheon  every  day  since  she  had  been  ill.  Alto- 
gether, she  was  feeling  very  "lazy-easy"  and  contented.  Her 
aunt's  announcement  felt  like  a  sudden  downpour  of  cold  water, 
or  rush  of  east  wind.  She  sat  straight  up  on  her  sofa,  and  ex- 
claimed in  a  tone  of  great  annoyance — — 

"Oh,  Aunt  Grizzel!" 

"Well,  my  dear?"  said  Miss  Grizzel,  placidly. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  make  me  begin  lessons  again  just  yet. 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  55 

I  know  they'll  make  my  head  ache  again,  and  Mr.  Kneebreeches 
will  be  so  cross.  I  know  he  will,  and  he  is  so  horrid  when  he  is 
cross." 

"Hush!"  said  Miss  Grizzel,  holding  up  her  hand  in  a  way 
that  reminded  Griselda  of  the  cuckoo's  favourite  "obeying  orders." 
Just  then,  too,  in  the  distance  the  ante-room  clock  struck  twelve. 
"Cuckoo!  cuckoo!  cuckoo!"  on  it  went.  Griselda  could  have 
stamped  with  irritation,  but  somehow,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  felt 
compelled  to  say  nothing.  She  muttered  some  not  very  pretty 
words,  coiled  herself  round  on  the  sofa,  opened  her  book,  and 
began  to  read. 

But  it  was  not  as  interesting  as  she  had  expected.  She  had 
not  read  many  pages  before  she  began  to  yawn,  and  she  was 
delighted  to  be  interrupted  by  Dorcas  and  the  jelly. 

But  the  jelly  was  not  as  nice  as  she  bad  expected,  either. 
She  tasted  it,  and  thought  it  was  too  sweet;  and  when  she  tasted 
it  again,  it  seemed  too  strong  of  cinnamon;  and  the  third  taste 
seemed  too  strong  of  everything.  She  laid  down  her  spoon,  and 
looked  about  her  discontentedly. 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  -dear?"  said  Miss  Grizzel.  "Is  the 
jelly  not  to  your  liking?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Griselda  shortly.  She  ate  a  few  spoon- 
fuls, and  then  took  up  her  book  again.  Miss  Grizzel  said  nothing 
more,  but  to  herself  she  thought  that  Mr.  Kneebreeches  had  not 
been  recalled  any  too  soon. 

All  day  long  it  was  much  the  same.  Nothing  seemed  to  come 
right  to  Griselda.  It  was  a  dull,  cold  day,  what  is.  called  "a  black 
frost";  not  a  bright,  clear,  pretty,  cold  day,  but  the  sort  of  frost 
that  really  makes  the  world  seem  dead — makes  it  almost  impos- 
sible to  believe  that  there  will  ever  be  warmth  and  sound  and 
"growing-ness"  again. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Griselda  crept  up  to  the  ante-room, 
and  sat  down  by  the  window.  Outside  it  was  nearly  dark,  and 
inside  it  was  not  much  more  cheerful — for  the  fire  was  nearlv  out, 


56  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

and  no  lamps  were  lighted;  only  the  cuckoo  clock  went  on  tick- 
ticking  briskly  as  usual. 

"I  hate  winter,"  said  Griselda,  pressing  her  cold  little  face 
against  the  colder  window-pane,  "I  hate  winter,  and  I  hate  les- 
sons. I  would  give  up  being  a  person  in  a  minute  if  I  might  be 
a — a — what  would  I  best  like  to  be?  Oh  yes,  I  know —  a  butter- 
fly.. Butterflies  never  see  winter,  and  they  certainly  never  have 
any  lessons  or  any  kind  of  work  to  do.  I  hate  must-mg  to  do 
anything." 

"Cuckoo,"  rang  out  suddenly  above  her  head. 

It  was  only  four  o'clock  striking,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  told 
it  the  cuckoo  was  back  behind  his  doors  again  in  an  instant,  just 
as  usual.  There  was  nothing  for  Griselda  to  feel  offended  at,  but 
somehow  she  got  quite  angry. 

"I  don't  care  what  you  think,  cuckoo!"  she  exclaimed  defi- 
antly. "I  know  you  came  out  on  purpose  just  now,  but  I  don't 
care.  I  do  hate  winter,  and  I  do  hate  lessons,  and  I  do  think  it 
would  be  nicer  to  be  a  butterfly  than  a  little  girl." 

In  her  secret  heart  I  fancy  she  Avas  half  in  hopes  that  the 
cuckoo  would  come  out  again,  and  talk  things  over  with  her. 
Even  if  he  were  to  scold  her,  she  felt  that  it  would  be  better 
than  sitting, there  alone  with  nobody  to  speak  to,  which  was  very 
dull  work  indeed.  At  the  bottom  of  her  conscience  there  lurked 
the  knowledge  that  what  she  should  be  doing  was  to  be  looking 
over  her  last  lessons  with  Mr.  Kneebreeches,  and  refreshing  her 
memory  for  the  next  day;  but,  alas!  knowing  one's  duty  is  by 
no  means  the  same  thing  as  doing  it,  and  Griselda  sat  on  by  the 
window  doing  nothing  but  grumble  and  work  herself  up  into  a 
belief  that  she  was  one  of  the  most-to-be-pitied  little  girls  in  all  the 
world.  So  that  by  the  time  Dorcas  came  to  call  her  to  tea,  I 
doubt  if  she  had  a  single  pleasant  thought  or  feeling  left  in  her 
heart. 

Things  grew  no  better  after  tea,  and  before  long  Griselda 
asked  if  she  might  go  to  bed.     She  was  "so  tired,"  she  said;  and 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  57 

she  certainly  looked  so,  for  ill-humour  and  idleness  are  excellent 
"tirers,"  and  will  soon  take  the  roses  out  of  a  child's  cheeks,  and 
the  brightness  out  of  her  eyes.  She  held  up  her  face  to  be  kissed 
by  her  aunts  in  a  meekly  reproachful  way,  which  made  the  old 
ladies  feel  quite  uncomfortable. 

"I  am  by  no  means  sure  that  I  have  done  right  in  recalling 
Mr.  Kneebreeches  so  soon,  Sister  Tabitha,"  remarked  Miss  Griz- 
zel,  uneasily,  when  Griselda  had  left  the  room.  But  Miss  Tabitha 
was  busy  counting  her  stitches,  and  did  not  give  full  attention 
to  Miss  Grizzel's  observation,  so  she  just  repeated  placidly,  "Oh 
yes,  Sister  Grizzel,  you  may  be  sure  you  have  done  right  in  re- 
calling Mr.  Kneebreeches." 

"I  am  glad  you  think  so,"  said  Miss  Tabitha,  with  again  a 
little  sigh  of  relief.  "I  was  only  distressed  to  see  the  child  look- 
ing so  white  and  tired." 

Upstairs  Griselda  was  hurry-scurrying  into  bed.  There  was 
a  lovely  fire  in  her  room — fancy  that!  Was  she  not  a  poor 
neglected  little  creature?  But  even  this  did  not  please  her.  She 
was  too  cross  to  be  pleased  with  anything ;  too  cross  to  wash  her 
face  and  hands,  or  let  Dorcas  brush  her  hair  out  nicely  as  usual; 
too  cross,  alas,  to  say  her  prayers!  She  just  huddled  into  bed, 
huddling  up  her  mind  in  an  untidy  hurry  and  confusion,  just  as 
she  left  her  clothes  in  an  untidy  heap  on  the  floor.  She  would 
not  look  into  herself,  was  the  truth  of  it;  she  shrank  from  doing 
so  because  she  knew  things  had  been  going  on  in  that  silly  little 
heart  of  hers  in  a  most  unsatisfactory  way  all  day,  and  she  wanted 
to  go  to  sleep  and  forget  all  about  it. 

She  did  go  to  sleep,  very  quickly  too.  No  doubt  she  really 
was  tired;  tired  with  crossness  and  doing  nothing,  and  she  slept 
very  soundly.  When  she  woke  up  she  felt  so  refreshed  and  rested 
that  she  fancied  it  must  be  morning.  It  was  dark,  of  course,  but 
that  was  to  be  expected  in  mid-winter,  especially  as  the  shutters 
were  closed. 

"I  wonder,"  thought  Griselda,  "I  wonder  if  it  really  is  morn- 


58  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

ing.  I  should  like  to  get  up  early — I  went  so  early  to  bed.  I 
think  I'll  just  jump  out  of  bed  and  open  a  chink  of  the  shutters. 
I'll  see  at  once  if  it's  nearly  morning,  by  the  look  of  the  sky." 

She  was  up  in  a  minute,  feeling  her  way  across  the  room 
to  the  window,  and  without  much  difficult y  she  found  the  hook 
of  the  shutters,  unfastened  it,  and  threw  one  side  open.  Ah  no, 
there  was  no  sign  of  morning  to  be  seen.  There  was  moonlight, 
but  nothing  else,  and  not  so  very  much  of  that,  for  the  clouds  were 
hurrying  across  the  "orbed  maiden's"  face  at  such  a  rate,  one 
after  the  other,  that  the  light  was  more  like  a  number  of  pale 
flashes  than  the  steady,  cold  shining  of  most  frosty  moonlight 
nights.  There  was  going  to  be  a  change  of  weather,  and  the 
cloud  armies  were  collecting  together  from  all  quarters;  that  was 
the  real  explanation  of  the  hurrying  and  scurrying  Griselda  saw 
overhead,  but  this,  of  course,  she  did  not  understand.  She  only 
saw  that  it  looked  wild  and  stormy,  and  she  shivered  a  little, 
partly  with  cold,  partly  with  a  half-frightened  feeling  that  she 
could  not  have  explained. 

"I  had  better  go  back  to  bed,"  she  said  to  herself;  "but  I  am 
not  a  bit  sleepy." 

She  was  just  drawing-to  the  shutter  again,  when  something 
caught  her  eye,  and  she  stopped  short  in  surprise.  A  little  bird 
was  outside  on  the  window-sill— a  tiny  bird  crouching  in  close  to 
the  cold  glass.  Griselda's  kind  heart  was  touched  in  an  instant. 
Cold  as  she  was,  she  pushed  back  the  shutter  again,  and  drawing 
a  chair  forward  to  the  window,  managed  to  unfasten  it — it  was 
a  very  heavy  one — and  to  open  it  wide  enough  to  slip  her  hand 
gently  along  to  the  bird.     It  did  not  start  or  move. 

"Can  it  be  dead?"  thought  Griselda  anxiously. 

But  no,  it  was  not  dead.  It  let  her  put  her  hand  round  it 
and  draw  it  in,  and  to  her  delight  she  felt  that  it  was  soft  and 
warm,  and  it  even  gave  a  gentle  peck  on  her  thumb. 

"Poor  little  bird,  how  cold  you  must  be,"  she  said  kindly. 
But,  to  her  amazement,  no  sooner  was  the  bird  safely  inside  the 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  59 

room,  than  it  managed  cleverly  to  escape  from  her  hand.  It 
fluttered  quietly  up  on  to  her  shoulder,  and  sang  out  in  a  soft 
but  cheery  tone,  "Cuckoo,  cuckoo — cold,  did  you  say,  Griselda? 
Not  so  very,  thank  you." 

Griselda  stept  back  from  the  window. 

"It's  you,  is  it?"  she  said  rather  surlily,  her  tone  seeming  to 
infer  that  she  had  taken  a  great  deal  of  trouble  for  nothing. 

"Of  course  it  is,  and  why  shouldn't  it  be?  You're  not  gen- 
erally so  sorry  to  see  me.    What's  the  matter?" 

"Nothing's  the  matter,"  replied  Griselda,  feeling  a  little 
ashamed  of  her  want  of  civility;  "only  you  see,  if  I  had  known 
it  was  you "     She  hesitated. 

"You  wouldn't  have  clambered  up  and  hurt  your  poor  fingers 
in  opening  the  window  if  you  had  known  it  was  me — is  that  it, 
eh?"  said  the  cuckoo. 

Somehow,  when  the  cuckoo  said  "eh?"  like  that,  Griselda  was 
obliged  to  tell  just  what  she  was  thinking. 

"No,  I  wouldn't  have  needed  to  open  the  window,"  she  said. 
"You  can  get  in  or  out  whenever  you  like;  you're  not  like  a  real 
bird.  Of  course,  you  were  just  tricking  me,  sitting  out  there  and 
pretending  to  be  a  starved  robin." 

There  was  a  little  indignation  in  her  voice,  and  she  gave  her 
head  a  toss,  which  nearly  upset  the  cuckoo. 

"Dear  me,  dear  me!"  exclaimed  the  cuckoo.  "You  have  a 
great  deal  to  complain  of,  Griselda.  Your  time  and  strength 
must  be  very  valuable  for  you  to  regret  so  much  having  wasted 
a  little  of  them  on  me." 

Griselda  felt  her  face  grow  red.  What  did  he  mean?  Did  he 
know  how  yesterday  had  been  spent?  She  said  nothing,  but  she 
drooped  her  head,  and  one  or  two  tears  came  slowly  creeping  up 
to  her  eyes. 

"Child!"  said  the  cuckoo,  suddenly  changing  his  tone,  "you 
are  very  foolish.  Is  a  kind  thought  or  action  ever  wasted?  Can 
your  eyes  see  what  such  good  seeds  grow  into?    They  have  wings, 


60  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

Griselda — kindnesses  have  wings  and  roots,  remember  that — 
wings  that  never  droop,  and  roots  that  never  die.  What  do  you 
think  I  came  and  sat  outside  your  window  for?" 

"Cuckoo,"  said  Griselda  humbly,  "I  am  very  sorry." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  cuckoo,  "we'll  leave  it  for  the  present. 
I  have  something  else  to  see  about.    Are  you  cold,  Griselda?" 

"Very,"  she  replied.  "I  would  very  much  like  to  go  back  to 
bed,  cuckoo,  if  you  please ;  and  there's  plenty  of  room  for  you  too, 
if  you'd  like  to  come  in  and  get  warm." 

"There  are  other  ways  of  getting  warm  besides  going  to 
bed,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "A  nice  brisk  walk,  for  instance.  I  was 
going  to  ask  you  to  come  out  into  the  garden  with  me." 

Griselda  almost  screamed. 

"Out  into  the  garden!  Oh,  cuckoo!"  she  exclaimed,  "how  can 
you  think  of  such  a  thing?  Such  a  freezing  cold  night.  Oh  no, 
indeed,  cuckoo,  I  couldn't  possibly." 

"Very  well,  Griselda,"  said  the  cuckoo;  "if  you  haven't  yet 
learnt  to  trust  me,  there's  no  more  to  be  said.     Good-night." 

He  flapped  his  wings,  cried  out  "Cuckoo"  once  only,  flew 
across  the  room,  and  almost  before  Griselda  understood  what  he 
was  doing,  had  disappeared. 

She  hurried  after  him,  stumbling  against  the  furniture  in  her 
haste,  and  by  the  uncertain  light.  The  door  was  not  open,  but 
the  cuckoo  had  got  through  it — "by  the  keyhole,  I  dare  say," 
thought  Griselda;  "he  can  'scrooge'  himself  up  any  way" — for  a 
faint  "cuckoo"  was  to  be  heard  on  its  other  side.  In  a  moment 
Griselda  had  opened  it,  and  was  speeding  down  the  long  passage 
in  the  dark,  guided  only  by  the  voice  from  time  to  time  heard 
before  her,  "cuckoo,  cuckoo." 

She  forgot  all  about  the  cold,  or  rather,  she  did  not  feel  it, 
though  the  floor  was  of  uncarpeted  old  oak,  whose  hard,  polished 
surface  would  have  usually  felt  like  ice  to  a  child's  soft,  bare  feet. 
It  was  a  very  long  passage,  and  to-night,  somehow,  it  seemed 
longer  than  ever.    In  fact,  Griselda  could  have  fancied  she  had 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  61 

been  running  along  it  for  half  a  mile  or  more,  when  at  last  she 
was  brought  to  a  standstill  by  finding  she  could  go  no  further. 
Where  was  she?  She  could  not  imagine!  It  must  be  a  part  of 
the  house  she  had  never  explored  in  the  daytime,  she  decided.  In 
front  of  her  was  a  little  stair  running  downwards,  and  ending  in 
a  doorway.  All  this  Griselda  could  see  by  a  bright  light  that 
streamed  in  by  the  keyhole  and  through  the  chinks  round  the  door 

a  light  so  brilliant  that  the  little  girl  blinked  her  eyes,  and 

for  a  moment  felt  quite  dazzled  and  confused. 

"It  came  so  suddenly,"  she  said  to  herself;  "some  one  must 
have  lighted  a  lamp  in  there  all  at  once.  But  it  can't  be  a  lamp, 
it's  too  bright  for  a  lamp.  It's  more  like  the  sun;  but  how  ever 
could  the  sun  be  shining  in  a  room  in  the  middle  of  the  night? 
What  shall  I  do?    Shall  I  open  the  door  and  peep  in?" 

"Cuckoo,  cuckoo,"  came  the  answer,  soft  but  clear,  from  the 
other  side. 

"Can  it  be  a  trick  of  the  cuckoo's  to  get  me  out  into  the  gar- 
den?" thought  Griselda;  and  for  the  first  time  since  she  had  run 
out  of  her  room  a  shiver  of  cold  made  her  teeth  chatter  and  her 
skin  feel  creepy. 

"Cuckoo,  cuckoo,"  sounded  again,  nearer  this  time,  it  seemed 
to  Griselda. 

"He's  waiting  for  me.  I  will  trust  him,"  she  said  resolutely. 
"He  has  always  been  good  and  kind,  and  it's  horrid  of  me  to 
think  he's  going  to  trick  me." 

She  ran  down  the  little  stair,  she  seized  the  handle  of  the 
door.  It  turned  easily;  the  door  opened — opened,  and  closed 
again  noiselessly  behind  her,  and  what  do  you  think  she  saw? 

"Shut  your  eyes  for  a  minute,  Griselda,"  said  the  cuckoo's 
voice  beside  her;  "the  light  will  dazzle  you  at  first.  Shut  them, 
and  I  will  brush  them  with  a  little  daisy  dew,  to  strengthen  them." 

Griselda  did  as  she  was  told.  She  felt  the  tip  of  the  cuckoo's 
softest  feather  pass  gently  two  or  three  times  over  her  eyelids, 
and  a  delicious  iscent  seemed  immediately  to  float  before  her. 


62  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"I  didn't  know  daisies  had  any  scent,"  she  remarked. 

"Perhaps  you  didn't.  You  forget,  Griselda,  that  you  have  a 
great " 

"Oh,  please  don't,  cuckoo.  Please,  please  don't,  dear  cuckoo," 
she  exclaimed,  dancing  about  with  her  hands  clasped  in  entreaty, 
but  her  eyes  still  firmly  closed.  "Don't  say  that,  and  I'll  promise 
to  believe  whatever  you  tell  me.  And  Iioav  soon  may  I  open 
my  eyes,  please,  cuckoo?" 

"Turn  round  slowly,  three  times.  That  will  give  the  dew 
time  to  take  ,  effect,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "Here  goes — one — two — 
three.    There,  now." 

Griselda  opened  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER   VII 

BUTTERFLY-LAND 
"I'd  be  a  butterfly." 

Griselda  opened  her  eyes. 

What  did  she  see? 

The  loveliest,  loveliest  garden  that  ever  or  never  a  little  girl's 
eyes  saw.  As  for  describing  it,  I  cannot.  I  must  leave  a  good 
deal  to  your  fancy.  It  was  just  a  delicious  garden.  There  was 
a  charming  mixture  of  all  that  is  needed  to  make  a  garden  perfect 
— grass,  velvety  lawn  rather;  water,  for  a  little  brook  ran  tinkling 
in  and  out,  playing  bo-peep  among  the  bushes;  trees,  of  course, 
and  flowers,  of  course,  flowers  of  every  shade  and  shape.  But  all 
these  beautiful  things  Griselda  did  not  at  first  give  as  much 
attention  to  as  they  deserved;  her  eyes  were  so  occupied  with  a 
quite  unusual  sight  that  met  them. 

This  was  butterflies!  Not  that  butterflies  are  so  very  un- 
common; but  butterflies,  as  Griselda  saw  them,  I  am  quite  sure, 
children,  none  of  you  ever  saw,  or  are  likely  to  see.     There  were 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  63 

such  enormous  numbers  of  them,  and  the  variety  of  their  colours 
and  sizes  was  so  great.  They  were  fluttering  about  everywhere; 
the  garden  seemed  actually  alive  with  them. 

Griselda  stood  for  a  moment  in  silent  delight,  feasting  her 
eyes  on  the  lovely  things  before  her,  enjoying  the  delicious  sun- 
shine which  kissed  her  poor  little  bare  feet,  and  seemed  to  wrap 
her  all  up  in  its  warm  embrace.  Then  she  turned  to  her  little 
friend. 

"Cuckoo,"  she  said,  "I  thank  you  so  much.  This  is  fairyland, 
at  last!" 

The  cuckoo  smiled,  I  was  going  to  say,  but  that  would  be 
a  figure  of  speech  only,  would  it  not?    He  shook  his  head  gently. 

"No,  Griselda,"  he  said  kindly;  "this  is  only  butterfly-land." 

"Butterfly-land !"  repeated  Griselda,  with  a  little  disappoint- 
ment in  her  tone. 

"Well,"  said  the  cuckoo,  "it's  where  you  were  wishing  to  be 
yesterday,  isn't  it?" 

Griselda  did  not  particularly  like  these  allusions  to  "yes- 
terday."    She  thought  it  would  be  as  well  to  change  the  subject. 

"It's  a  beautiful  place,  whatever  it  is,"  she  said,  "and  I'm 
sure,  cuckoo,  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  bringing  me  here. 
Now  may  I  run  about  and  look  at  everything?  How  delicious 
it  is  to  feel  the  warm  sunshine  again!  I  didn't  know  how  cold  I 
was.  Look,  cuckoo,  my  toes  and  fingers  are  quite  blue;  they're 
only  just  beginning  to  come  right  again.  I  suppose  the  sun 
always  shines  here.  How  nice  it  must  be  to  be  a  butterfly;  don't 
you  think  so,  cuckoo?     Nothing  to  do  but  fly  about." 

She  stopped  at  last,  quite  out  bf  breath. 

"Griselda,"  said  the  cuckoo,  "if  you  want  me  to  answer  your 
questions,  you  must  ask  them  one  at  a  time.  You  may  run  about 
and  look  at  everything  if  you  like,  but  you  had  better  not  be  in 
such  a  hurry.  You  will  make  a  great  many  mistakes  if  you  are — 
you  have  made  some  already." 

"How?"  said  Griselda. 


64  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"Have  the  butterflies  nothing  to  do  but  fly  about?  Watch 
them." 

Griselda  watched. 

"They  do  seem  to  be  doing  something,"  she  said,  at  last,  "but 
I  can't  think  what.  They  seem  to  be  nibbling  at  the  flowers,  and 
then  flying  away  something  like  bees  gathering  honey.  Butterflies 
don't  gather  honey,  cuckoo?" 

"No,"  said  the  cuckoo.     "They  are  filling  their  paint-boxes." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Griselda. 

"Come  and  see,"  said  the  cuckoo. 

He  flew  quietly  along  in  front  of  her,  leading  the  way 
through  the  prettiest  paths  in  all  the  pretty  garden.  The  paths 
were  arranged  in  different  colours,  as  it  were;  that  is  to  say,  the 
flowers  growing  along  their  sides  were  not  all  "mixty-maxty," 
but  one  shade  after  another  in  regular  order— from  the  palest 
blush  pink  to  the  very  deepest  damask  crimson;  then,  again,  from 
the  soft  greenish  blue  of  the  small  grass  forget-me-not  to  the 
rich  warm  tinge  of  the  brilliant  cornflower.  Every  tint  was 
there;  shades,  to  which,  though  not  exactly  .strange  to  her,  Gris- 
elda could  yet  have  given  no  name,  for  the  daisy  dew,  you  see, 
had  sharpened  her  eyes  to  observe  delicate  variations  of  colour, 
as  she  had  never  done  before. 

"How  beautifully  the  flowers  are  planned,"  she  said  to  the 
cuckoo.     "Is  it  just  to  look  pretty,  or  why?" 

"It  saves  time,"  replied  the  cuckoo.  "The  fetch-and-carry 
butterflies  know  exactly  where  to  go  to  for  the  tint  the  world- 
flower-painters  want." 

"Who  are  the  fetch-and-carry  butterflies,  and  who  are  the 
world-flower-painters?"  asked  Griselda. 

"Wait  a  bit  and  you'll  see,  and  use  your  eyes,"  answered 
the  cuckoo.  "It'll  do  your  tongue  no  harm  to  have  a  rest  now 
and  then." 

Griselda  thought  it  as  well  to  take  his  advice,  though  not 
particularly  relishing  the  manner  in  which  it  was  given.      She 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  65 

did  use  her  eyes,  and  as  she  and  the  cuckoo  made  their  way  along 
the  flower  alleys,  she  saw  that  the  butterflies  were  never  idle. 
They  came  regularly,  in  little  parties  of  two  and  threes,  and 
nibbled  away,  as  she  called  it,  at  flowers  of  the  same  colour  but 
different  shades,  till  they  had  got  what  they  wanted.  Then  off 
flew  butterfly  No.  1  with  perhaps  the  palest  tint  of  maize,  or 
yellow,  or  lavender,  whichever  he  was  in  quest  of,  followed  by 
No.  2  with  the  next  deeper  shade  of  the  same,  and  No.  3  bringing 
up  the  rear. 

Griselda  gave  a  little  sigh. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  the  cuckoo. 

"They  work  very  hard,"  she  replied,  in  a  melancholy  tone. 

"It's  a  busy  time  of  year,"  observed  the  cuckoo,  drily. 

After  a  while  they  came  to  what  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  centre 
to  the  garden.  It  was  a  huge  glass  house,  with  numberless  doors, 
in  and  out  of  which  butterflies  were  incessantly  flying — reminding 
Griselda  again  of  bees  and  a  beehive.  But  she  made  no  remark 
till  the  cuckoo  spoke  again. 

"Come  in,"  he  said. 

Griselda  had  to  stoop  a  good  deal,  -but  she  did  manage  to 
get  in  without  knocking  her  head  or  doing  any  damage.  Inside 
was  just  a  mass  of  butterflies.  A  confused  mass  it  seemed  at 
first,  but  after  a  while  she  saw  that  it  was  the  very  reverse  of 
confused.  The  butterflies  were  all  settled  in  rows  on  long, 
narrow,  white  tables,  and  before  each  was  a  tiny  object  about 
the  size  of  a  flattened-out  pin's  head,  which  he  was  most  carefully 
painting  with  one  of  his  tentacles,  whidh,  from  time  to  time,  he 
moistened  by  rubbing  it  on  the  head  of  a  butterfly  waiting  pa- 
tiently behind  him.  Behind  this  butterfly  again  stood  another, 
who  after  a  while  took  his  place,  while  the  first  attendant  flew 
away. 

"To  fill  his  paint-box  again,"  remarked  the  cuckoo,  who 
seemed  to  read  Griselda's  thoughts. 

"But  what  are  they  painting,  cuckoo?"  she  inquired  eagerly. 


66  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"All  the  flowers  in  the  world,"  replied  the  cuckoo.  "Autumn, 
winter,  and  spring,  they're  hard  at  work.  It's  only  just  for  the 
three  months  of  summer  that  the  butterflies  have  any  holiday,  and 
then  a  few  stray  ones  now  and  then  wander  up  to  the  world, 
and  people  talk  about  'idle  butterflies!'  And  even  then  it  isn't 
true  that  they  are  idle.  They  go  up  to  take  a  look  at  the  flowers, 
to  see  how  their  work  has  turned  out,  and  many  a  damaged  petal 
they  repair,  or  touch  up  a  faded  tint,  though  no  one  ever 
knows  it." 

"1  know  it  now,"  said  Griselda.  "I  will  never  talk  about 
idle  butterflies  again — never.  But,  cuckoo,  do  they  paint  all  the 
flowers  here,  too?    What  a  fearful  lot  they  must  have  to  do!" 

"No,"  said  the  cuckoo;  "the  flowers  down  here  are  fairy 
flowers.  They  never  fade  or  die,  they  are  always  just  as  you 
see  them.  But  the  colours  of  your  flowers  are  all  taken  from 
them,  as  you  have  seen.  Of  course  they  don't  look  the  same  up 
there,"  he  went  on,  with  a  slight  contemptuous  shrug  of  his  cuckoo 
shoulders;  "the  coarse  air  and  the  ugly  things  about  must  take 
the  bloom  off.  The  wild  flowers  do  the  best,  to  my  thinking; 
people  don't  meddle  with  them  in  their  stupid,  clumsy  way." 

"But  how  do  they  get  the  flowers  sent  up  to  the  world, 
cuckoo?"  asked  Griselda. 

"They're  packed  up,  of  course,  and  taken  up  at  night  when 
all  of  you  are  asleep,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "They're  painted  on 
elastic  stuff,  you  see,  which  fits  itself  as  the  plant  grows.  Why, 
if  your  eyes  were  as  they  are  usually,  Griselda,  you  couldn't  even 
see  the  petals  the  butterflies  are  painting  now." 

"And  the  packing  up,"  said  Griselda;  "do  the  butterflies  do 
that  too?" 

"No,"  said  the  cuckoo,  "the  fairies  look  after  that." 

"How  wonderful!"  exclaimed  Griselda.  But  before  the 
cuckoo  had  time  to  say  more  a  sudden  tumult  filled  the  air.  It 
was  butterfly  dinner-time! 

"Are  you  hungry,  Griselda?"  sad  the  cuckoo. 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  67 

"Not  so  very,"  replied  Griselda. 

"It's  just  as  well  perhaps  that  you're  not,"  he  remarked, 
"for  I  don't  know  that  you'd  be  much  the  better  for  dinner  here." 

"Why  not?"  inquired  Griselda  curiously.  "What  do  they 
have  for  dinner?  Honey?  I  like  that  very  well,  spread  on  the 
top  of  bread-and-butter,  of  course — I  don't  think  I  should  care  to 
eat  it  alone." 

"You  won't  get  any  honey,"  the  cuckoo  was  beginning;  but 
he  was  interrupted.  Two  handsome  butterflies  flew  into  the 
great  glass  hall,  and  making  straight  for  the  cuckoo,  alighted  on 
his  shoulders.  They  fluttered  about  him  for  a  minute  or  two,  evi- 
dently rather  excited  about  something,  then  flew  away  again,  as 
suddenly  as  they  had  appeared. 

"Those  were  royal  messengers,"  said  the  cuckoo,  turning  to 
Griselda.  "They  have  come  with  a  message  from  the  king  and 
queen  to  invite  us  to  a  banquet  which  is  to  be  held  in  honour  of 
your  visit." 

"What  fun!"  cried  Griselda.  "Do  let's  go  at  once,  cuckoo. 
But,  oh  dear  me,"  she  went  on,  with  a  melancholy  change  of  tone, 
"I  was  forgetting,  cuckoo.  I  can't  go  to  the  banquet.  I  have 
nothing  on  but  my  night-gown.  I  never  thought  of  it  before, 
for  I'm  not  a  bit  cold." 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  cuckoo,  "I'll  soon  have  that  put  to 
rights." 

He  flew  off,  and  was  back  almost  immediately,  followed  by  a 
whole  flock  of  butterflies.  They  were  of  a  smaller  kind  than 
Griselda  had  hitherto  seen,  and  they  were  of  two  colours  only; 
half  were  blue,  half  yellow.  They  flew  up  to  Griselda,  who  felt 
for  a  moment  as  if  she  were  really  going  to  be  suffocated  by  them, 
but  only  for  a  moment.  There  seemed  a  great  buzz  and  flutter 
about  her,  and  then  the  butterflies  set  to  work  to  dress  her.  And 
how  do  you  think  they  dressed  her?  With  themselves!  They 
arranged  themselves  all  over  her  in  the  cleverest  way.  One  set 
of  blue  ones  clustered  round  the  hem  of  her  little  white  night- 


(58  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLES  WORTH 

gown,  making  a  thick  "ruche,"  as  it  were;  and  then  there  came 
two  or  three  thinner  rows  of  yellow,  and  then  blue  again.  Round 
her  waist  they  made  the  loveliest  belt  of  mingled  blue  and  yellow, 
and  all  over  -the  upper  part  of  her  night-gown,  in  and  out  among 
the  pretty  white  frills  which  Dorcas  herself  "goffered"  so  nicely, 
they  made  themselves  into  fantastic  trimmings  of  every  shape  and 
kind;  bows,  rosettes — I  cannot  tell  you  what  they  did  not  imitate. 

Perhaps  the  prettiest  ornament  of  all  was  the  coronet  or 
wreath  they  made  of  themselves  for  her  head,  dotting  over  her 
curly  brown  hair  too  with  butterfly  spangles,  which  quivered 
like  dew-drops  as  she  moved  about.  No  one  would  have  known 
Griselda;  she  looked  like  a  fairy  queen,  or  princess,  at  least,  for 
even  her  little  white  feet  had  what  looked  like  butterfly  shoes  upon 
them,  though  these,  you  will  understand,  were  only  a  sort  of  make- 
believe,  as,  of  course,  the  shoes  were  soleless. 

"Now,"  said  the  cuckoo,  when  at  last  all  was  quiet  again, 
and  every  blue  and  every  yellow  butterfly  seemed  settled  in  his 
place,  "now,  Griselda,  come  and  look  at  yourself." 

He  led  the  way  to  a  marble  basin,  into  which  fell  the  waters 
of  one  of  the  tinkling  brooks  that  were  to  be  found  everywhere 
about  the  garden,  and  bade_  Griselda  look  into  the  water  mirror. 
It  danced  about  rather;  but  still  she  was  quite  able  to  see  herself. 
She  peered  in  Avith  great  satisfaction,  turning  herself  round,  so 
as  to  see  first  over  one  shoulder,  then  over  the  other. 

"It  is  lovely,"  she  said  at  last.  "But,  cuckoo,  I'm  just  think- 
ing—how shall  I  possibly  be  able  to  sit  down  without  crushing 
ever  so  many?" 

"Bless  you,  you  needn't  trouble  about  that,"  said  the  cuckoo; 
"The  butterflies  are  quite  able  to  take  care  of  themselves.  You 
don't  suppose  you  are  the  first  little  girl  they  have  ever  made  a 
dress  for?" 

Griselda  said  no  more,  but  followed  the  cuckoo,  walking 
rather  "gingerly,"  notwithstanding  his  assurances  that  the  butter- 
flies could  take  care  of  themselves.     At  last  the  cuckoo  stopped, 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  69 

in  front  of  a  sort  of  banked-up  terrace,  in  the  centre  of  which 
grew  a  strange-looking  plant  with  large  smooth,  spreading-out 
leaves,  and  on  the  two  topmost  leaves,  their  splendid  wings  glit- 
tering in  the  sunshine,  sat  two  magnificent  butterflies.  They  were 
many  times  larger  than  any  Griselda  had  yet  seen;  in  fact,  the 
cuckoo  himself  looked  rather  small  beside  them,  and  they  were  so 
beautiful  that  Griselda  felt  quite  over-awed.  You  could  not  have 
said  what  colour  they  were,  for  at  the  faintest  movement  they 
seemed  to  change  into  new  colours,  each  more  exquisite  than  the 
last.  Perhaps  I  could  best  give  you  an  idea  of  them  by  saying 
that  they  were  like  living  rainbows. 

"Are  those  the  king  and  queen?"  asked  Griselda  in  a 
whisper. 

"Yes,"  said  the  cuckoo.    "Do  you  admire  them?" 

*'I  should  rather  think  I  did,"  said  Griselda.  "But,  cuckoo, 
do  they  never  do  anything  but  lie  there  in  the  sunshine?" 

"Oh,  you  silly  girl,"  exclaimed  the  cuckoo,  "always  jumping 
at  conclusions.  No,  indeed,  that  is  not  how  they  manage  things 
in  butterfly-land.  The  king  and  queen  have  worked  harder  than 
any  other  butterflies.  They  are  chosen  every  now  and  then,  out 
of  all  the  others,  as  being  the  most  industrious  and  the  cleverest 
of  all  the  world-flower-painters,  and  then  they  are  allowed  to  rest, 
and  are  fed  on  the  finest  essences,  so  that  they  grow  as  splendid 
as  you  see.  But  even  now  they  are  not  idle;  they  superintend 
all  the  work  that  is  done,  and  choose  all  the  new  colours." 

"Dear  me!"  said  Griselda,  under  her  breath,  "how  clever 
they  must  be." 

Just  then  the  butterfly  king  and  queen  stretched  out  their 
magnificent  wings,  and  rose  upwards,  soaring  proudly  into  the 
air. 

"Are  they  going  away?"  said  Griselda  in  a  disappointed  tone. 

"Oh  no,"  said  the  cuckoo;  "they  are  welcoming  you.  Hold 
out  your  hands." 

Griselda  held  out  her  hands,  and  stood  gazing  up  into  the 


70  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

sky.  In  a  minute  or  two  the  royal  butterflies  appeared  again, 
slowly,  majestically  circling  downwards,  till  at  length  they 
alighted  on  Griselda's  little  hands,  the  king  on  the  right,  the  queen 
on  the  left,  almost  covering  her  fingers  with  their  great  dazzling 
wings. 

"You  do  look  nice  now,"  said  the  cuckoo,  hopping  back  a 
few  steps  and  looking  up  at  Griselda  approvingly;  "but  it's  time 
for  the  feast  to  begin,  as  it  won't  do  for  us  to  be  late." 

The  king  and  queen  appeared  to  understand.  They  floated 
away  from  Griselda's  hands  and  settled  themselves,  this  time,  at 
one  end  of  a  beautiful  little  grass  plot  or  lawn,  just  below  the 
terrace  where  grew  the  large-leaved  plant.  This  was  evidently 
their  dining-room,  for  no  sooner  were  they  in  their  place  than 
butterflies  of  every  kind  and  colour  came  pouring  in,  in  masses, 
from  all  directions.  Butterflies  small  and  butterflies  large;  but- 
terflies light  and  butterflies  dark;  butterflies  blue,  pink,  crimson, 
green,  gold-colour — every  colour,  and  far,  far  more  colours  than 
you  could  possibly  imagine. 

They  all  settled  down,  round  the  sides  of  the  grassy  dining-table, 
and  in  another  minute  a  number  of  small  white  butterflies  ap- 
peared, carrying  among  them  floAver  petals  carefully  rolled  up, 
each  containing  a  drop  of  liquid.  One  of  these  was  presented  to 
the  king,  and  then  one  to  the  queen,  who  each  sniffed  at  their 
petal  for  an  instant,  and  then  passed  it  on  to  the  butterfly  next 
them,  whereupon  fresh  petals  were  handed  to  them,  which  they 
again  passed  on. 

"What  are  they  doing,  cuckoo?"  said  Griselda;  "that's  not 
eating." 

"It's  their  kind  of  eating,"  he  replied.  "They  don't  require 
any  other  kind  of  food  than  a  sniff  of  perfume;  and  as  there  are 
perfumes  extracted  from  every  flower  in  butterfly-land,  and  there 
are  far  more  flowers  than  you  could  count  between  now  and 
Christmas,  you  must  allow  there  is  plenty  of  variety  of  dishes." 

"Um-m,"  said  Griselda;  "I  suppose  there  is.     But  all  the 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  71 

same,  cuckoo,  it's  a  very  good  thing  I'm  not  hungry,  isn't  it? 
May  I  pour  the  scent  on  my  pocket-handkerchief  when  it  comes 
round  to  me?  I  have  my  handkerchief  here,  you  see.  Isn't  it 
nice  that  I  brought  it?  It  was  under  my  pillow,  and  I  wrapped 
it  round  my  hand  to  open  the  shutter,  for  the  hook  scratched  it 
once." 

"You  may  pour  one  drop  on  your  handkerchief,"  said  the 
cuckoo,  "but  not  more.  I  shouldn't  like  the  butterflies  to  think 
you  greedy." 

But  Griselda  grew  very  tired  of  the  scent  feast  long  before 
all  the  petals  had  been  passed  round.  The  perfumes  were  very 
nice,  certainly,  but  there  were  such  quantities  of  them — double 
quantities  in  honour  of  the  guest,  of  course!  Griselda  screwed 
up  her  handkerchief  into  a  tight  little  ball,  so  that  the  one  drop 
of  scent  should  not  escape  from  it,  and  then  she  kept  sniffing 
at  it  impatiently,  till  at  last  the  cuckoo  asked  her  what  was  the 
matter. 

"I  am  so  tired  of  the  feast,"  she  said.  "Do  let  us  do  some- 
thing else,  cuckoo." 

"It  is  getting  rather  late,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "But  see,  Gris- 
elda, they  are  going  to  have  an  air-dance  now." 

"What's  that?"  said  Griselda. 

"Look,  and  you'll  see,"  he  replied. 

Flocks  and  flocks  of  butterflies  were  rising  a  short  way  into 
the  air,  and  there  arranging  themselves  in  bands  according  to  their 
colours. 

"Come  up  on  the  bank,"  said  the  cuckoo  to  Griselda;  "you'll 
see  them  better." 

Griselda  climbed  up  the  bank,  and  as  from  there  she  could 
look  down  on  the  butterfly  show,  she  saw  it  beautifully.  The 
long  strings  of  butterflies  twisted  in  and  out  of  each  other  in  a 
most  wonderful  way,  like  ribbons  of  every  hue  plaiting  themselves 
and  then  in  an  instant  unplaiting  themselves  again.  Then  the 
king  and  queen  placed  themselves  in  the  centre,  and  round  and 


72  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

round  in  moving  circles  twisted  and  untwisted  the  brilliant  bands 
of  butterflies. 

"It's  like  a  kaleidoscope,"  said  Griselda;  "and  now  it's  like 
those  twisty-twirly  dissolving  views  that  papa  took  me  to  see  once. 
It's  just  like  them.  Oh,  how  pretty!  Cuckoo,  are  they  doing  it 
all  on  purpose  to  please  me?" 

"A  good  deal,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "Stand  up  and  clap  your 
hands  loud  three  times,  to  show  them  you're  pleased." 

Griselda  obeyed.  "Clap"  number  one — all  the  butterflies  rose 
up  into  the  air  in  a  cloud;  clap  number  two — they  all  fluttered 
and  twirled  and  buzzed  about,  as  if  in  the  greatest  excitement; 
clap  number  three — they  all  turned  in  Griselda's  direction  with 
a  rush. 

"They're  going  to  kiss  you,  Griselda,"  cried  the  cuckoo. 

Griselda  felt  her  breath  going.  Up  above  her  was  the  vast 
feathery  cloud  of  butterflies,  fluttering,  rushing  down  upon  her. 

"Cuckoo,  cuckoo,"  she  screamed,  "they'll  suffocate  me.  Oh, 
cuckoo!" 

"Shut  your  eyes,  and  clap  your  hands  loud,  very  loud,"  called 
out  the  cuckoo. 

And  just  as  Griselda  clapped  her  hands,  holding  her  precious 
handkerchief  between  her  teeth,  she  heard  him  give  his  usual  cry, 
"Cuckoo,  cuckoo." 

Clap — where  were  they  all? 

Griselda  opened  her  eyes — garden,  butterflies,  cuckoo,  all 
had  disappeared.  She  was  in  bed,  and  Dorcas  was  knocking  at 
the  door  with  the  hot  water. 

"Miss  Grizzel  said  I  was  to  wake  you  at  your  usual  time  this 
morning,  missie,"  she  said.  "I  hope  you  don't  feel  too  tired  to 
get  up." 

"Tired!  1  should  think  not,"  replied  Griselda.  "I  was 
awake  this  morning  ages  before  you,  I  can  tell  you,  my  dear 
Dorcas.     Come  here  for  a  minute,  Dorcas,  please,"  she  went  on. 


Os.  </-. 


©BY     DUFFIELD    a    COMPANY 

"Round   and   round   in   moving  circles,   twisted   and    untwisted,   the   brilliant   bands 

of  butterflies." 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  73 

"There  now,  sniff  my  handkerchief.  What  do  you  think  of 
that?" 

"It's  beautiful,"  said  Dorcas.  "It's  out  of  the  big  blue  chinay 
bottle  on  your  auntie's  table,  isn't  it,  missie?" 

"Suff  and  nonsense,"  replied  Griselda;  "it's  scent  of  my  own, 
Dorcas.  Aunt  Grizzel  never  had  any  like  it  in  her  life.  There 
now!  Please  give  me  my  slippers,  I  want  to  get  up  and  look 
over  my  lessons  for  Mr.  Kneebreeches  before  he  comes.  Dear 
me,"  she  added  to  herself,  as  she  was  putting  on  her  slippers, 
"how  pretty  my  feet  did  look  with  the  blue  butterfly  shoes!  It 
was  very  good  of  the  cuckoo  to  take  me  there,  but  I  don't  think  I 
shall  ever  wish  to  be  a  butterfly  again,  now  I  know  how  hard  they 
work!  But  I'd  like  to  do  my  lessons  well  to-day.  I  fancy  it'll 
please  the  dear  old  cuckoo." 


CHAPTER   VIII 

MASTER   PHIL 

"Who  comes  from  the  world  of  flowers? 
Daisy  and  crocus,  and  sea-blue  bell, 
And  violet  shrinking  in  dewy  cell — 
Sly  cells  that  know  the  secrets  of  night, 
When  earth  is  bathed  in  fairy  light — 

Scarlet,  and  blue,  and  golden  flowers." 

And  so  Mr.  Kneebreeches  had  no  reason  to  complain  of  his 
pupil  that  day. 

And  Miss  Grizzel  congratulated  herself  more  heartily  than 
ever  on  her  wise  management  of  children. 

And  Miss  Tabitha  repeated  that  Sister  Grizzel  might  indeed 
congratulate  herself. 

And  Griselda  became  gradually  more  and  more  convinced 
that  the  only  way  as  yet  discovered  of  getting  through  hard  tasks 
is  to  set  to  work  and  do  them ;  also,  that  grumbling,  as  things  are 
at  present  arranged  in  this  world,  does  not  always,  nor  I  may 


74  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

say  often,  do  good;  furthermore,  that  an  ill-tempered  child  is  not, 
on  the  whole,  likely  to  be  as  much  loved  as  a  good-tempered  one; 
lastly,  that  if  you  wait  long  enough,  winter  will  go  and  spring 
will  come. 

For  this  was  the  case  this  year  after  all!  Spring  had  only 
been  sleepy  and  lazy,  and  in  such  a  case  what  could  poor  old  winter 
do  but  fill  the  vacant  post  till  she  came?  Why  he  should  be  so 
scolded  and  reviled  for  faithfully  doing  his  best,  as  he  often  is, 
I  really  don't  know.  Not  that  all  the  ill  words  he  gets  have  much 
effect  on  him — he  comes  again  just  as  usual,  whatever  we  say 
of,  or  to,  him.  I  suppose  his  feelings  have  long  ago  been  frozen 
up,  or  surely  before  this  he  would  have  taken  offence — well  for 
us  that  he  has  not  done  so! 

But  when  the  spring  did  come  at  last  this  year,  it  would  be 
impossible  for  me  to  tell  you  how  Griselda  enjoyed  it.  It  was 
like  new  life  to  her  as  well  as  to  the  plants,  and  flowers,  and  birds, 
and  insects.  Hitherto,  you  see,  she  had  been  able  to  see  very  little 
of  the  outside  of  her  aunt's  house;  and  charming  as  the  inside 
was,  the  outside,  I  must  say,  was  still  "charminger."  There 
seemed  no  end  to  the  little  up-and-down  paths  and  alleys,  leading 
to  rustic  seats  and  quaint  arbours;  no  limits  to  the  little  pine- 
wood,  down  into  which  led  the  dearest  little  zig-zaggy  path  you 
ever  saw,  all  bordered  with  snow-drops  and  primroses  and  violets, 
and  later  on  with  periwinkles,  and  wood  anemones,  and  those 
bright,  starry,  white  flowers,  whose  name  no  two  people  agree 
about. 

This  wood-path  was  the  place,  I  think,  which  Griselda  loved 
the  best.  The  bowling-green  was  certainly  very  delightful,  and 
so  was  the  terrace  where  the  famous  roses  grew;  but  lovely  as  the 
roses  were  (I  am  speaking  just  now,  of  course,  of  later  on  in  the 
summer,  when  they  were  all  in  bloom),  Griselda  could  not  enjoy 
them  as  much  as  the  wild-flowers,  for  she  was  forbidden  to  gather 
or  touch  them,  except  with  her  funny  round  nose! 

"You  may  scent  them,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Grizzel,  who  was 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  75 

of  opinion  that  smell  was  not  a  pretty  word;  "but  I  cannot  allow 
anything  more.  " 

And  Griselda  did  "scent"  them,  I  assure  you.  She  burrowed 
her  whole  rosy  face  in  the  big  ones;  but  gently,  for  she  did  not 
want  to  spoil  them,  both  for  her  aunt's  sake,  and  because,  too, 
she  had  a  greater  regard  for  flowers  now  that  she  knew  the  secret 
of  how  they  were  painted,  and  what  a  great  deal  of  trouble  the 
butterflies  take  about  them. 

But  after  a  while  one  grows  tired  of  "scenting"  roses;  and 
even  the  trying  to  walk  straight  across  the  bowling-green  with 
her  eyes  shut,  from  the  arbour  at  one  side  to  the  arbour  exactly  like 
it  at  the  other,  grew  stupid,  though  no  doubt  it  would  have  been 
capital  fun  with  a  companion  to  applaud  or  criticise. 

So  the  wood-path  became  Griselda's  favourite  haunt.  As 
the  summer  grew  on,  she  began  to  long  more  than  ever  for  a 
companion — not  so  much  for  play,  as  for  some  one  to  play  with. 
She  had  lessons,  of  course,  just  as  many  as  in  the  winter;  but  with 
the  long  days,  there  seemed  to  come  a  quite  unaccountable  in- 
crease of  play-time,  and  Griselda  sometimes  found  it  hang  heavy 
on  her  hands.  She  had  not  seen  or  heard  anything  of  the  cuckoo 
either,  save,  of  course,  in  his  "official  capacity"  of  time-teller,  for 
a  very  long  time. 

"I  suppose,"  she  thought,  "he  thinks  I  don't  need  amusing, 
now  that  the  fine  days  are  come  and  I  can  play  in  the  garden; 
and  certainly,  if  I  had  any  one  to  play  with,  the  garden  would  be 
perfectly  lovely." 

But,  failing  companions,  she  did  the  best  she  could  for  her- 
self, and  this  was  why  she  loved  the  path  down  into  the  wood  so 
much.  There  was  a  sort  of  mystery  about  it;  it  might  have  been 
the  path  leading  to  the  cottage  of  Red-Ridinghood's  grandmother, 
or  a  path  leading  to  fairyland  itself.  There  were  all  kinds  of 
queer,  nice,  funny  noises  to  be  heard  there — in  one  part  of  it 
especially,  where  Griselda  made  herself  a  seat  of  some  moss- 
grown  stones,  and  where  she  came  so  often  that  she  got  to  know 


76  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

all  the  little  flowers  growing  close  round  about,  and  even  the 
particular  birds  whose  nests  were  hard  by. 

She  used  to  sit  there  and  fancy — fancy  that  she  heard  the 
wood-elves  chattering  under  their  breath,  or  the  little  under- 
ground gnomes  and  kobolds  hammering  at  their  fairy  forges. 
And  the  tinkling  of  the  brook  in  the  distance  sounded  like  the 
enchanted  bells  round  the  necks  of  the  fairy  kine,  who  are  sent 
out  to  pasture  sometimes  on  the  upper  world  hillsides.  For  Gris- 
elda's  head  was  crammed  full,  perfectly  full,  of  fairy  lore;  and  the 
mandarins'  country,  and  butterfly-land,  were  quite  as  real  to  her 
as  the  every-day  world  about  her. 

But  all  this  time  she  was  not  forgotten  by  the  cuckoo,  as  you 
will  see. 

One  day  she  was  sitting  in  her  favourite  nest,  feeling,  not- 
withstanding the  sunshine,  and  the  flowers,  and  the  soft  sweet 
air,  and  the  pleasant  sounds  all  about,  rather  dull  and  lonely. 
For  though  it  was  only  May,  it  was  really  quite  a  hot  day,  and 
Griselda  had  been  all  the  morning  at  her  lessons,  and  had  tried 
very  hard,  and  done  them  very  well,  and  now  she  felt  as  if  she 
deserved  some  reward.  Suddenly  in  the  distance,  she  heard  a 
well-known  sound,  "Cuckoo,  cuckoo." 

"Can  that  be  the  cuckoo?"  she  said  to  herself;  and  in  a 
moment  she  felt  sure  that  it  must  be.  For,  for  some  reason  that 
I  do  not  know  enough  about  the  habits  of  real  "flesh  and  blood" 
cuckoos  to  explain,  that  bird  was  not  known  in  the  neighbourhood 
where  Griselda's  aunts  lived.  Some  twenty  miles  or  so  further 
south  it  was  heard  regularly,  but  all  this  spring  Griselda  had 
never  caught  the  sound  of  its  familiar  note,  and  she  now  remem- 
bered hearing  it  never  came  to  these  parts. 

So,  "it  must  be  my  cuckoo,"  she  said  to  herself.  "He  must 
be  coming  out  to  speak  to  me.  How  funny!  I  have  never  seen 
him  by  daylight." 

She  listened.  Yes,  again  there  it  was,  "Cuckoo,  cuckoo,"  as 
plain  as  possible,  and  nearer  than  before. 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  77 

"Cuckoo,"  cried  Griselda,  "do  come  and  talk  to  me.  It's 
such  a  long  time  since  I  have  seen  you,  and  I  have  nobody  to 
play  with." 

But  there  was  no  answer.  Griselda  held  her  breath  to  listen, 
but  there  was  nothing  to  be  heard. 

"Unkind  cuckoo!"  she  exclaimed.  "He  is  tricking  me,  I  do 
believe;  and  to-day  too,  just  when  I  was  so  dull  and  lonely." 

The  tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  was  beginning  to  think 
herself  very  badly  used,  when  suddenly  a  rustling  in  the  bushes 
beside  her  made  her  turn  round,  more  than  half  expecting  to  see 
the  cuckoo  himself.  But  it  was  not  he.  The  rustling  went  on 
for  a  minute  or  two  without  anything  making  its  appearance,  for 
the  bushes  were  pretty  thick  just  there,  and  any  one  scrambling 
up  from  the  pinewood  below  would  have  had  rather  hard  work 
to  get  through,  and  indeed  for  a  very  big  person  such  a  feat 
would  have  been  altogether  impossible. 

It  was  not  a  very  big  person,  however,  who  was  causing  all 
the  rustling  and  crunching  of  branches,  and  general  commotion, 
which  now  absorbed  Griselda's  attention.  She  sat  watching  for 
another  minute  in  perfect  stillness,  afraid  of  startling  by  the 
slightest  movement  the  squirrel  or  rabbit  or  creature  of  some 
kind  which  she  expected  to  see.  At  last — was  that  a  squirrel  or  a 
rabbit — that  rosy,  round  face,  with  shaggy,  fair  hair  falling  over 
the  eager  blue  eyes,  and  a  general  look  of  breathlessness  and  over- 
heatedness  and  determination? 

A  squirrel  or  a  rabbit!  No,  indeed,  but  a  very  sturdy,  very 
merry,  very  ragged  little  boy. 

"Where  are  that  cuckoo?  Does  you  know?"  were  the  first 
words  he  uttered,  as  soon  as  he  had  fairly  shaken  himself,  though 
not  by  any  means  all  his  clothes,  free  of  the  bushes  (for  ever  so 
many  pieces  of  jacket  and  knickerbockers,  not  to  speak  of  one 
boot  and  half  his  hat,  had  been  left  behind  on  the  way),  and 
found  breath  to  say  something. 

Griselda  stared  at  him  for  a  moment  without  speaking.     She 


78  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

was  so  astonished.  It  was  months  since  she  had  spoken  to  a 
child,  almost  since  she  had  seen  one,  and  about  children  younger 
than  herself  she  knew  very  little  at  any  time,  being  the  ba»by  of 
the  family  at  home,  you  see,  and  having  only  big  brothers  older 
than  herself  for  play-fellows. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  said  at  last.  "What's  your  name,  and 
what  do  you  want?" 

"My  name's  Master  Phil,  and  I  want  that  cuckoo,"  answered 
the  little  boy.  "He  earned  up  this  way.  I'm  sure  he  did,  for  he 
called  me  all  the  way." 

"He's  not  here,'*  said  Griselda,  shaking  her  head;  "and  this 
is  my  aunts'  garden.  No  one  is  allowed  to  come  here  but  -friends 
of  theirs.  You  had  better  go  home;  and  you  have  torn  your 
clothes  so." 

"This  aren't  a  garden,"  replied  the  little  fellow  undauntedly, 
looking  round  him;  "this  are  a  wood.  There  are  blue-bells  and 
primroses  here,  and  that  shows  it  aren't  a  garden — not  anybody's 
garden,  I  mean,  with  walls  round,  for  nobody  to  come  in." 

"But  it  is"  said  Griselda,  getting  rather  vexed.  If  it  isn't 
a  garden  it's  grounds,  private  grounds,  and  ndbody  should  come 
without  leave.  This  path  leads  down  to  the  wood,  and  there's 
a  door  in  the  wall  at  the  bottom  -to  get  into  the  lane.  You  may 
go  down  that  way,  little  boy.  No  one  -comes  scrambling  up  the 
way  you  did." 

"But  I  want  to  find  the  cuckoo,"  said  the  little  boy.  "I 
do  so  want  to  find  the  cuckoo!" 

His  voice  sounded  almost  as  if  he  were  going  to  cry,  and 
his  pretty,  hot,  flushed  face  puckered  up.  Griselda's  heart  smote 
her;  she  looked  at  him  more  carefully.  He  was  such  a  very  little 
boy,  after  -all ;  she  did  not  like  to  be  cross  to  him. 

"How  •old  are  you?"    she  asked. 

"Five  and  a  bit.  I  had  a  birthday  after  the  summer,  and 
if  I'm  good,  nurse  says  perhaps  I'll  have  one  after  next  summer 
too.     Do  you  ever  have  birthdays?"  he  went  on,  peering  up  at 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  79 

Griselda.  "Nurse  says  she  used  to  when  she  was  young,  but 
she  never  has  any  now." 

"Have  you  a  nurse?"  asked  Griselda,  rather  surprised;  for 
to  tell  the  truth,  from  "Master  Phil's"  appearance,  she  had  not 
felt  at  all  sure  what  sort  of  little  boy  he  was,  or  rather  what  sort 
of  people  he  belonged  to. 

"Of  course  I  have  a  nurse,  and  a  mother  too,"  said  the  little 
boy,  opening  wide  his  eyes  in  surprise  at  the  question.  "Haven't 
you?  Perhaps  you're  too  big,  though.  People  leave  off  having 
nurses  and  mothers  when  they're  big,  don't  they?  Just  like  birth- 
days. But  I  won't.  I  won't  never  leave  off  having  a  mother, 
any  way.  I  don't  care  so  much  about  nurse  and  birthdays,  not 
kite  so  much.  Did  you  care  when  you  had  to  leave  off,  when  you 
got  too  big?" 

"I  hadn't  to  leave  off  because  I  got  big,"  said  Griselda  sadly. 
"I  left  off  when  I  was  much  littler  than  you,"  she  went  on,  un- 
consciously speaking  as  Phil  would  best  understand  her.  "My 
mother  died." 

"I'm  werry  sorry,"  said  Phil;  and  the  way  in  which  he  said 
it  quite  overcame  Griselda's  unfriendliness.  "But  perhaps  you 
have  a  nice  nurse.  My  nurse  is  rather  nice ;  but  she  will  'cold  me 
to-day  won't  she?"  he  added,  laughing,  pointing  to  the  terrible 
rents  in  his  garments.  "These  are  my  very  oldestest  things; 
that's  a  good  thing,  isn't  it?  Nurse  says  I  don't  look  like  Master 
Phil  in  these,  but  when  I  have  on  my  blue  welpet,  then  I  look 
like  Master  Phil.  I  shall  have  my  blue  welpet  when  mother 
comes." 

"Is  your  mother  away?"  said  Griselda. 

"Oh,  yes,  she's  been  away  a  long  time;  so  nurse  came  here 
to  take  care  of  me  at  the  farm-house,  you  know.  Mother  was 
ill,  but  she's  better  now,  and  some  day  she'll  come  too." 

"Do  you  like  being  at  the  farm-house?  Have  you  any- 
body to  play  with?"  said  Griselda. 

Phil  shook  his  curly  head.     "I  never  have  anybody  to  play 


80  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

with,"  he  said.  "I'd  like  to  play  with  you  if  you're  not  too  big. 
And  do  you  think  you  could  help  me  find  the  cuckoo?"  he  added 
insinuatingly. 

"What  do  you  know  about  the  cuckoo?"  said  Griselda. 

"He  called  me,"  said  Phil,  "he  called  me  lots  of  times;  and 
to-day  nurse  was  busy,  so  I  thought  I'd  come.  And  do 
you  know,"  he  added  mysteriously,  "I  do  believe  the  cuckoo's 
a  fairy,  and  when  I  find  him  I'm  going  to  ask  him  to  show  me 
the  way  to  fairyland." 

"He  says  we  must  all  find  the  way  ourselves,"  said  Griselda, 
quite  forgetting  to  whom  she  was  speaking. 

"Does  he?"  cried  Phil,  in  great  excitement.  "Do  you  know 
him,  then — and  have  you  asked  him?     Oh,  do  tell  me." 

Griselda  recollected  herself.  "You  couldn't  understand," 
she  said.  "Some  day  perhaps  I'll  tell  you — I  mean  if  I  ever 
see  you  again." 

"But  I  may  see  you  again,"  said  Phil,  settling  himself  down 
comfortably  beside  Griselda  on  her  mossy  stone.  "You'll  let 
me  come,  won't  you?  I  like  to  talk  about  fairies,  and  nurse 
doesn't  understand.  And  if  the  cuckoo  knows  you,  perhaps  that's 
why  he  called  me  to  come  to  play  with  you." 

"How  did  he  call  you?"  asked  Griselda. 

"First,"  said  Phil  gravely,  "it  was  in  the  night.  I  was  asleep, 
and  I  had  been  wishing  I  had  somebody  to  play  with,  and  then 
I  d'eamed  of  the  cuckoo — such  a  nice  d'eam.  And  when  I  woke 
up  I  heard  him  calling  me,  and  I  wasn't  d'eaming  then.  And 
then  when  I  was  in  the  field  he  called  me,  but  I  couldn't  find  him, 
and  nurse  said  'Nonsense.'  And  to-day  he  called  me  again,  so 
I  earned  up  through  the  bushes.  And  mayn't  I  come  again? 
Perhaps  if  we  both  tried  together  we  could  find  the  way  to 
fairyland.    Do  you  think  we  could?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Griselda,  dreamily.  "There's  a  great 
deal  to  learn  first,  the  cuckoo  says." 

"Have  you  learnt  a  great  deal?"  (he  called  it  "a  gate  deal") 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  81 

asked  Phil,  looking  up  at  Griselda  with  increased  respect.  "Z 
don't  know  scarcely  nothing.  Mother  was  ill  such  a  long  time 
before  she  went  away,  but  I  know  she  wanted  me  to  learn  to 
read  books.     But  nurse  is  too  old  to  teach  me." 

"Shall  I  teach  you?"  said  Griselda.  "I  can  bring  some  of 
my  old  books  and  teach  you  here  after  I  have  done  my  own 
lessons." 

"And  then  mother  would  be  surprised  when  she  comes  back," 
said  Master  Phil,  clapping  his  hands.  "Oh,  do.  And  when  I've 
learnt  to  read  a  great  deal,  do  you  think  the  cuckoo  would  show 
us  the  way  to  fairyland?" 

"I  don't  think  it  was  that  sort  of  learning  he  meant,"  said 
Griselda.  "But  I  dare  say  that  would  help.  I  think,"  she  went 
on,  lowering  her  voice  a  little,  and  looking  down  gravely  into 
Phil's  earnest  eyes,  "I  think  he  means  mostly  learning  to  be  very 
good — very,  very  good,  you  know." 

"Gooder  than  you?"  said  Phil. 

"Oh,  dear,  yes;  lots  and  lots  gooder  than  me,"  replied 
Griselda. 

"Z  think  you're  very  good,"  observed  Phil,  in  a  parenthesis. 
Then  he  went  on  with  his  cross-questioning. 

"Gooder   than   mother?" 

"I  don't  know  your  mother,  so  how  can  I  tell  how  good 
she  is?"  said  Griselda. 

"Z  can  tell  you,"  said  Phil,  importantly.  "She  is  just  as 
good  as— as  good  as — as  good  as  good.     That's  what  she  is." 

"You  mean  she  couldn't  be  better,"  said  Griselda,  smiling. 

"Yes,  that'll  do,  if  you  like.  Would  that  be  good  enough 
for  us  to  be,  do  you  think?" 

"We  must  ask  the  cuckoo,"  said  Griselda.  "But  I'm  sure 
it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  you  to  learn  to  read.  You  must 
ask  your  nurse  to  let  you  come  here  every  afternoon  that  it's 
fine,  and  I'll  ask  my  aunt." 

"I  needn't  ask  nurse,"  said  Phil  composedly;  "she'll  never 


82  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

know  where  I  am,  and  I  needn't  tell  her.  She  doesn't  care  what 
I  do,  except  tearing  my  clothes;  and  when  she  scolds  me,  I  don't 
care." 

"That  isn't  good,  Phil,"  said  Griselda  gravely.  "You'll 
never  be  as  good  as  good  if  you  speak  like  that." 

"What  should  I  say,  then?  Tell  me,"  said  the  little  boy 
submissively. 

"You  should  ask  nurse  to  let  you  come  to  play  with  me, 
and  tell  her  I'm  much  bigger  than  you,  and  I  won't  let  you 
tear  your  clothes.  And  you  should  tell  her  you're  very  sorry 
you've  torn  them  to-day." 

"Very  well,"  said  Phil,  "I'll  say  that.  But,  oh  see!"  he  ex- 
claimed, darting  off,  "there's  a  field  mouse!  If  only  I  could 
catch  him!" 

Of  course  he  couldn't  catch  him,  nor  could  Griselda  either; 
very  ready,  though,  she  was  to  do  her  best.  But  it  was  great 
fun  all  the  same,  and  the  children  laughed  heartily  and  enjoyed 
themselves  tremendously.  And  when  they  Were  tired  they  sat 
down  again  and  gathered  flowers  for  nosegays,  and  Griselda 
was  surprised  to  find  how  clever  Phil  was  about  it.  He  was 
much  quicker  than  she  at  spying  out  the  prettiest  blossoms,  how- 
ever hidden  behind  tree,  or  stone,  or  shrub.  And  he  told  her  of 
all  the  best  places  for  flowers  near  by,  and  Avhere  grew  the  largest 
primroses  and  the  sweetest  violets,  in  a  way  that  astonished  her. 

"You're  such  a  little  boy,"  she  said;  "how  do  you  know  so 
much  about  flowers?" 

"I've  had  no  one  else  to  play  with,"  he  said  innocently.  "And 
then,  you  know,  the  fairies  are  so  fond  of  them." 

When  Griselda  thought  it  was  time  to  go  home,  she  led  little 
Phil  down  the  wood-path,  and  through  the  door  in  the  wall 
opening  on  to  the  lane. 

"Now  you  can  find  your  way  home  without  scrambling 
through  any  more  bushes,  can't  you,  Master  Phil?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  thank  you,  and  I'll  come  again  to  that  place  to-morrow 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  83 

afternoon,  shall  I?"  asked  Phil.  "I'll  know  when — after  I've 
had  my  dinner  and  raced  three  times  round  the  big  field,  then 
it'll  be  time.    That's  how  it  was  to-day." 

"I  should  think  it  would  do  if  you  walked  three  times — or 
twice  if  you  like — round  the  field.  It  isn't  a  good  thing  to  race 
just  when  you've  had  your  dinner,"  observed  Griselda  sagely. 
"And  you  mustn't  try  to  come  if  it  isn't  fine,  for  my  aunts  won't 
let  me  go  out  if  it  rains  even  the  tiniest  bit.  And  of  course  you 
must  ask  your  nurse's  leave." 

"Very  well,"  said  little  Phil  as  he  trotted  off.  "I'll  try  to 
remember  all  those  things.  I'm  so  glad  you'll  play  with  me  again ; 
and  if  you  see  the  cuckoo,  please  thank  him." 


CHAPTER  IX 

UP    AND    DOWN    THE   CHIMNEY 

"Helper.  Well,  but  if  it  was  all  dream,  it  would  be  the  same  as  if  it 
was  all  real,  would  it  not? 

"Keeper.     Yes,  I  see.      I  mean,  Sir,  I  do  not  see."- — A  Lilliput  Revel. 

Not  having  "just  had  her  dinner,"  and  feeling  very  much 
inclined  for  her  tea,  Griselda  ran  home  at  a  great  rate. 

She  felt,  too,  in  such  good  spirits;  it  had  been  so  delightful 
to  have  a  companion  in  her  play. 

"What  a  good  thing  it  was  I  didn't  make  Phil  run  away 
before  I  found  out  what  a  nice  little  boy  he  was,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "I  must  look  out  my  old  reading  books  to-night.  I 
shall  so  like  teaching  him,  poor  little  boy,  and  the  cuckoo  will  be 
pleased  at  my  doing  something  useful,  I'm  sure." 

Tea  was  quite  ready,  in  fact  waiting  for  her,  when  she  came 
in.  This  was  a  meal  she  always  had  by  herself,  brought  up  on 
a  tray  to  Dorcas's  little  sitting-room,  where  Dorcas  waited  upon 
her.     And  sometimes  when  Griselda  was  in  a  particularly  good 


84  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

humour  she  would  beg  Dorcas  to  sit  down  and  have  a  cup  of  tea 
with  her — a  liberty  the  old  servant  was  far  too  dignified  and 
respectful  to  have  thought  of  taking,  unless  specially  requested 
to  do  so. 

This  evening,  as  you  know,  Griselda  was  in  a  very  particu- 
larly good  humour,  and  besides  this,  so  very  full  of  her  adven- 
tures, that  she  would  have  been  glad  of  an  even  less  sympathising 
listener  than  Dorcas  was  likely  to  be. 

"Sit  down,  Dorcas,  and  have  some  more  tea,  do,"  she  said 
coaxingly.  "It  looks  ever  so  much  more  comfortable,  and  I'm 
sure  you  could  eat  a  little  more  if  you  tried,  whether  you've  had 
your  tea  in  the  kitchen  or  not.  I'm  fearfully  hungry,  I  can  tell 
you.  You'll  have  to  cut  a  whole  lot  more  bread  and  butter,  and 
not  'ladies'  slices'  either." 

"How  your  tongue  does  go,  to  be  sure,  Miss  Griselda,"  said 
Dorcas,  smiling,  as  she  seated  herself  on  the  chair  Griselda  had 
drawn  in  for  her. 

"And  why  shouldn't  it?"  said  Griselda  saucily.  "It  doesn't 
do  it  any  harm.  But  oh,  Dorcas,  I've  had  such  fun  this  after- 
noon— really,  you  couldn't  guess  what  I've  been  doing." 

"Very  likely  not,  missie,"  said  Dorcas. 

"But  you  might  try  to  guess.  Oh  no,  I  don't  think  you 
need— guessing  takes  such  a  time,  and  I  want  to  tell  you.  Just 
fancy,  Dorcas,  I've  been  playing  with  a  little  boy  in  the  wood." 

"Playing  with  a  little  boy,  Miss  Griselda !"  exclaimed  Dorcas, 
aghast. 

"Yes,  and  he's  coming  again  to-morrow,  and  the  day  after, 
and  every  day,  I  dare  say,"  said  Griselda.  "He  is  such  a  nice 
little  boy." 

"But,  missie,"  began  Dorcas. 

"Well?  What's  the  matter?  You  needn't  look  like  that— 
as  if  I  had  done  something  naughty,"  said  Griselda  sharply. 

"But  you'll  tell  your  aunt,  missie?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Griselda,  looking  up  fearlessly  into  Dor- 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  85 

cas's  face  with  her  bright  gray  eyes.  "Of  course;  why  shouldn't 
I?  I  must  ask  her  to  give  the  little  boy  leave  to  come  into  our 
grounds;  and  I  told  the  little  boy  to  be  sure  to  tell  his  nurse, 
Who  takes   care  of  him,  about  his   playing  with  me." 

"His  nurse,"  repeated  Dorcas,  in  a  tone  of  some  relief. 
"Then  he  must  be  quite  a  little  boy,  perhaps  Miss  Grizzel  would 
not  object  so  much  in  that  case." 

"Why  should  she  object  at  all?  She  might  know  I  wouldn't 
want  to  play  witih  a  naughty  rude  boy,"  said  Griselda. 

"She  thinks  all  boys  rude  and  naughty,  I'm  afraid,  missie," 
said  Dorcas.  "All,  that  is  to  say,  excepting  your  dear  papa. 
But  then,  of  course,  she  had  the  bringing  up  of  him  in  her  own 
way  from  the  beginning." 

"Well,  I'll  ask  her,  anyway,"  said  Griselda,  "and  if  she  says 
I'm  not  to  play  with  him,  I  shall  think — I  know  what  I  shall 
think  of  Aunt  Grizzel,  whether  I  say  it  or  not." 

And  the  old  look  of  rebellion  and  discontent  settled  down 
again  on  her  rosy  face. 

"Be  careful,  Missie,  now  do,  there's  a  dear  good  girl,"  said 
Dorcas  anxiously,  an  hour  later,  when  Griselda,  dressed  as  usual 
in  her  little  white  muslin  frock,  was  ready  to  join  her  aunts  at 
dessert. 

But  Griselda  would  not  condescend  to  make  any  reply. 

"Aunt  Grizzel,"  she  said  suddenly,  when  she  had  eaten  an 
orange  and  three  biscuits  and  drunk  half  a  glass  of  home-made 
elder-berry  wine,  "Aunt  Grizzel,  when  I  was  out  in  the  garden 
to-day — down  the  wood-path,  I  mean— I  met  a  little  boy,  and 
he  played  with  me,  and  I  want  to  know  if  he  may  come  every  day 
to  play  with  me." 

Griselda  knew  she  was  not  making  her  request  in  a  very 
amiable  or  becoming  manner;  she  knew,  indeed,  that  she  was 
making  it  in  such  a  way  as  was  almost  certain  to  lead  to  its 
being  refused ;  and  yet,  though  she  was  really  so  very,  very  anxious 


86  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

to  get  leave  to  play  with  little  Phil,  she  took  a  sort  of  spiteful 
pleasure  in  injuring  her  own  cause. 

How  foolish  ill-temper  makes  us!  Griselda  had  allowed 
herself  to  get  so  angry  at  the  thought  of  being  thwarted  that  had 
her  aunt  looked  up  quietly  and  said  at  once,  "Oh  yes,  you  may 
have  the  little  boy  to  play  with  you  whenever  you  like,"  she 
would  really,  in  a  strange  distorted  sort  of  way,  have  been  dis- 
appointed. 

But,  of  course,  Miss  Grizzel  made  no  such  reply.  Nothing 
less  than  a  miracle  could  have  made  her  answer  Griselda  other- 
wise than  as  she  did.  Like  Dorcas,  for  an  instant,  she  was  utterly 
"flabbergasted,"  if  you  know  what  that  means.  For  she  was 
really  quite  an  old  lady,  you  know,  and  sensible  as  she  was,  things 
upset  her  much  more  easily  than  when  she  was  younger. 

Naughty  Griselda  saw  her  uneasiness,  and  enjoyed  it. 

"Playing  with  a  boy!'  exclaimed  Miss  Grizzel.  "A  boy  in 
my  grounds,  and  you,  my  niece,  to  have  played  with  him!" 

"Yes,"  said  Griselda  coolly,  "and  I  want  to  play  with  him 
again." 

"Griselda,"  said  her  aunt,  "I  am  too  astonished  to  say  more 
at  present.     Go  to  bed." 

"Why  should  I  go  to  bed?  It  is  not  my  bedtime,"  cried 
Griselda,  blazing  up.  "What  have  I  done  to  be  sent  to  bed  as 
if  I  were  in  disgrace?" 

"Go  to  bed,"  repeated  Miss  Grizzel.  "I  will  speak  to  you 
to-morrow." 

"You  are  very  unfair  and  unjust,"  said  Griselda,  starting 
up  from  her  chair.  "That's  all  the  good  of  being  honest  and 
telling  everything.  I  might  have  played  with  the  little  boy  every 
day  for  a  month  and  you  would  never  have  known,  if  I  hadn't 
told  you." 

She  banged  across  the  room  as  she  spoke,  and  out  at  the 
door,  slamming  it  behind  her  rudely.  Then  upstairs  like  a  whirl- 
wind; but  when  she  got  to  her  own  room,  she  sat  down  on  the 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  87 

floor  and  burst  into  tears,  and  when  Dorcas  came  up,  nearly  half 
an  hour  later,  she  was  still  in  the  same  place,  crouched  up  in  a 
little  heap,  sobbing  bitterly. 

"Oh,  missie,  missie,"  said  Dorcas,  "it's  just  what  I  was 
afraid  of!" 

As  Griselda  rushed  out  of  the  room  Miss  Grizzel  leant  back 
in  her  chair  and  sighed  deeply. 

"Already,"  she  said  faintly.  "She  was  never  so  violent  be- 
fore. Can  one  afternoon's  companionship  with  rudeness  have 
already  contaminated  her?    Already,  Tabitha — can  it  be  so?" 

"Already,"  said  Miss  Tabitha,  softly  shaking  her  head,  which 
somehow  made  her  look  wonderfully  like  an  old  cat,  for  she  felt 
cold  of  an  evening  and  usually  wore  a  very  fine  woolly  shawl 
of  a  delicate  gray  shade,  and  the  borders  of  her  cap  and  the  ruffles 
round  her  throat  and  wrists  were  all  of  fluffy,  downy  white — 
"already,"  she  said. 

"Yet,"  said  Miss  Grizzel,  recovering  herself  a  little,  "it  is 
true  what  the  child  said.  She  might  have  deceived  us.  Have 
I  been  hard  upon  her,  Sister  Tabitha?" 

"Hard  upon  her  Sister  Grizzel!"  said  Miss  Tabitha  with 
more  energy  than  usual;  "no,  certainly  not.  For  once,  Sister 
Grizzel,  I  disagree  with  you.     Hard  upon  her!     Certainly  not." 

But  Miss  Grizzel  did  not  feel  happy. 

When  she  went  up  to  her  own  room  at  night  she  was  sur- 
prised to  find  Dorcas  waiting  for  her,  instead  of  the  younger  maid. 

"I  thought  you  would  not  mind  having  me,  instead  of  Martha, 
to-night,  ma'am,"  she  said,  "for  I  did  so  want  to  speak  to  you 
about  Miss  Griselda.  The  poor,  dear  young  lady  has  gone  to  bed 
so  very  unhappy." 

"But  do  you  know  what  she  has  done,  Dorcas?"  said  Miss 
Grizzel.  "Admitted  a  boy,  a  rude,  common,  impertinent  boy,  into 
my  precincts,  and  played  wibh  him — with  a  boy,  Dorcas." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Dorcas.  "I  know  all  about  it,  ma'am. 
Miss  Griselda  has  told  me  all.     But  if  you  would  allow  me  to 


88  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLES  WORTH 

give  an  opinion,  it  isn't  quite  so  bad.  He's  quite  a  little  boy, 
ma'am — between  five  and  six — only  just  about  the  age  Miss 
Griselda's  dear  papa  was  when  he  first  came  to  us,  and,  by  all  I 
can  hear,  quite  a  little  gentleman." 

"A  little  gentleman,"  repeated  Miss  Grizzel,  "and  not  six 
years  old!  That  is  less  objectionable  than  I  expected.  What  is 
his  name,  as  you  know  so  much,  Dorcas?" 

"Master  Phil,"  replied  Dorcas.  "That  is  what  he  told  Miss 
Griselda,  and  she  never  thought  to  ask  him  more.  But  I'll  tell 
you  how  we  could  get  to  hear  more  about  him,  I  think,  ma'am. 
From  what  Miss  Griselda  says,  I  believe  he  is  staying  at  Mr. 
Crouch's  farm,  and  that,  you  know,  ma'am,  belongs  to  my  Lady 
Lavander,  though  it  a  good  way  from  Merrybrow  Hall.  My 
lady  is  pretty  sure  to  know  about  the  child,  for  she  knows  all 
that  goes  on  among  her  tenants,  and  I  remember  hearing  that  a 
little  gentleman  and  his  nurse  had  come  to  Mr.  Crouch's  to  lodge 
for  six  months." 

Miss  Grizzel  listened  attentively  . 

"Thank  you,  Dorcas,"  she  said,  when  the  old  servant  had  left 
off  speaking.  "You  have  behaved  with  your  usual  discretion.  I 
shall  drive  over  to  Merrybrow  to-morrow,  and  make  inquiry.  And 
you  may  tell  Miss  Griselda  in  the  morning  what  I  purpose  doing; 
but  tell  her  also  that,  as  a  punishment  for  her  rudeness  and  ill- 
temper,  she  must  have  breakfast  in  her  own  room  to-morrow, 
and  not  see  me  till  I  send  for  her.  Had  she  restrained  her 
temper  and  explained  the  matter,  all  this  distress  might  have 
been  saved." 

Dorcas  did  not  wait  till  "to-morrow  morning";  she  could 
not  bear  to  think  of  Griselda's  unhappiness.  From  her  mistress's 
room  she  went  straight  to  Vhe  little  girl's,  going  in  very  softly,  so 
as  not  to  disturb  her  should  she  be  sleeping. 

"Are  you  awake,  missie?"  she  said  gently. 

Griselda  started  up. 

"Yes,"  she  exclaimed.    "Is  it  you,  cuckoo?    I'm  quite  awake." 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  89 

"Bless  the  child,"  said  Dorcas  to  herself,  "how  her  head  does 
run  on  Miss  Sybilla's  cuckoo.  It's  really  wonderful.  There's 
more  in  such  things  than  some  people  think." 

But  aloud  she  only  replied — 

"It's  Dorcas,  missie.  No  fairy,  only  old  Dorcas  come  to  com- 
fort you  a  bit.  Listen,  missie.  Your  auntie  is  going  over  to 
Merrybrow  Hall  to-morrow  to  inquire  about  this  little  Master 
Phil  from  my  Lady  Lavander,  for  we  think  it's  at  one  of  her 
ladyship's  farms  that  he  and  his  nurse  are  staying,  and  if  she  hears 
that  he's  a  nice-mannered  little  gentleman,  and  comes  of  good 
parents — why,  missie,  there's  no  saying  but  that  you'll  get  leave 
to  play  with  him  as  much  as  you  like." 

"But  not  to-morrow,  Dorcas,"  said  Griselda.  "Aunt  Grizzel 
never  goes  to  Merrybrow  till  the  afternoon.  She  won't  be  back 
in  time  for  me  to  play  with  Phil  to-morrow." 

"No,  but  next  day,  perhaps,"  said  Dorcas. 

"Oh,  but  that  won't  do,"  said  Griselda,  beginning  to  cry 
again.  "Poor  little  Phil  will  be  coming  up  to  the  wood-path  to- 
morrow, and  if  he  doesn't  find  me,  he'll  be  so  unhappy — perhaps 
he'll  never  come  again  if  I  don't  meet  him  to-morrow." 

Dorcas  saw  that  the  little  girl  was  worn  out  and  excited,  and 
not  inclined  to  take  a  reasonable  view  of  things. 

"Go  to  sleep,  missie,"  she  said  kindly,  "and  don't  think  any- 
thing more  about  it  till  to-morrow.    It'll  be  all  right,  you'll  see." 

Her  patience  touched  Griselda. 

"You  are  very  kind,  Dorcas,"  she  said.  "I  don't  mean  to  be 
cross  to  you;  but  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  poor  little  Phil.  Per- 
haps he'll  sit  down  on  my  mossy  stone  and  cry.    Poor  little  Phil !" 

But  notwithstanding  her  distress,  when  Dorcas  had  left 
her  she  did  feel  her  heart  a  little  lighter,  and  somehow  or  other 
before  long  she  fell  asleep. 

When  she  awoke  it  seemed  to  be  suddenly,  and  she  had  the 
feeling  that  something  had  disturbed  her.  She  lay  for  a  minute 
or  two  perfectly  still — listening.     Yes;   there  it   was — the   soft, 


90  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

faint  rustle  in  the  air  that  she  knew  so  well.  It  seemed  as  if 
something  was  moving  away  from  her. 

"Cuckoo,"  she  said  gently,  "is  that  you?" 

A  moment's  pause,  then  came  the  answer — the  pretty  greet- 
ing she  expected. 

"Cuckoo,  cuckoo,"  soft  and  musical.    Then  the  cuckoo  spoke. 

"Well,  Griselda,"  he  said,  "and  how  are  you?  It's  a  good 
while  since  we  have  had  any  fun  together." 

"That's  not  my  fault,"  said  Griselda  sharply.  She  was  not 
yet  feeling  quite  as  amiable  as  might  have  been  desired,  you  see. 
"That's  certainly  not  my  fault,"  she  repeated. 

"I  never  said  it  was,"  replied  the  cuckoo.  "Why  will  you 
.lump  at  conclusions  so?  It's  a  very  bad  habit,  for  very  often  you 
jump  over  them,  you  see,  and  go  too  far.  One  should  always 
walk  up  to  conclusions,  very  slowly  and  evenly,  right  foot  first, 
then  left,  one  with  another— that's  the  way  to  get  where  you  want 
to  go,  and  feel  sure  of  your  ground.    Do  you  see?" 

"I  don't  know  Avhether  I  do  or  not,  and  I'm  not  going  to 
speak  to  you  if  you  go  on  at  me  like  that.  You  might  see  I 
don't  want  to  be  lectured  when  I  am  so  unhappy." 

"What  are  you  unhappy  about?" 

"About  Phil,  of  course.  I  won't  tell  you,  for  I  believe  you 
know,"  said  Griselda.  "Wasn't  it  you  that  sent  him  to  play  with 
me?  I  was  so  pleased,  and  I  thought  it  was  very  kind  of  you; 
but  it's  all  spoilt  now." 

"But  I  heard  Dorcas  saying  that  your  aunt  is  going  over  to 
consult  my  Lady  Lavander  about  rt,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "It'll  be 
all  right;  you  needn't  be  in  such  low  spirits  about  nothing." 

"Were  you  in  the  room  then?"  said  Griselda.  "How  funny 
you  are,  cuckoo.  But  it  isn't  all  right.  Don't  you  see,  poor  little 
Phil  will  be  coming  up  the  wood-path  to-morrow  afternoon  to 
meet  me,  and  I  won't  be  there!    I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it." 

"Is  that  all?"  said  the  cuckoo.     "It  really  is  extraordinary 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  91 

how  some  people  make  troubles  out  of  nothing!  We  can  easily 
tell  Phil  not  to  come  till  the  day  after.     Come  along." 

"Come  along,"  repeated  Griselda;  "what  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  I  forgot,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "You  don't  understand. 
Put  out  your  hand.    There,  do  you  feel  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Griselda,  stroking  gently  the  soft  feathers  which 
seemed  to  be  close  under  her  hand.     "Yes,  I  feel  you." 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  cuckoo,  "put  your  arms  round  my 
neck,  and  hold  me  firm.     I'll  lift  you  up." 

"How  can  you  talk  such  nonsense,  cuckoo?"  said  Griselda. 
"Why,  one  of  my  little  fingers  would  clasp  your  neck.  How  can 
I  put  my  arms  round  it?" 

"Try,"  said  the  cuckoo. 

Somehow  Griselda  had  to  try. 

She  held  out  her  arms  in  the  cuckoo's  direction,  as  if  she 
expected  his  neck  to  be  about  the  size  of  a  Shetland  pony's,  or 
a  large  Newfoundland  dog's;  and,  to  her  astonishment,  so  it  was! 
A  nice,  comfortable,  feathery  neck  it  felt — so  soft  that  she  could 
not  help  laying  her  head  down  upon  it,  and  nestling  in  the  downy 
cushion. 

"That's  right,"  said  the  cuckoo. 

Then  he  seemed  to  give  a  little  spring,  and  Griselda  felt  her- 
self altogether  lifted  on  to  his  back.  She  lay  there  as  comfortably 
as  possible— it  felt  so  firm  as  well  as  soft.  Up  he  flew  a  little 
way — then  stopped  short. 

"Are  you  all  right?"  he  inquired.  "You're  not  afraid  of  fall- 
ing off?" 

"Oh  no,"  said  Griselda;  "not  a  bit." 

"You  needn't  be,"  said  the  cuckoo,  "for  you  couldn't  if 
you  tried.     I'm  going  on,  then." 

"Where  to?"  said  Griselda. 

"Up  the  chimney  first,"  said  the  cuckoo. 

"But  there'll  never  be  room,"  said  Griselda.  "I  might  per- 
haps crawl  up  like  a  sweep,  hands  and  knees,  you  know,   like 


92  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLES  WORTH 

going  up  a  ladder.     But  stretched  out  like  this — it's  just  as  if 
I  were  lying  on  a  sofa — I  couldn't  go  up  the  chimney." 

"Couldn't  you?"  said  the  cuckoo.  "We'll  see.  I  intend  to 
go,  anyway,  and  to  take  you  with  me.  Shut  your  eyes — one,  two, 
three — here  goes — we'll  be  up  the  chimney  before  you  know." 

It  was  quite  true.  Griselda  shut  her  eyes  tight.  She  felt 
nothing  but  a  pleasant  sort  of  rush.  Then  she  heard  the  cuckoo's 
voice  saying — 

"Well,  wasn't  that  well  done?  Open  your  eyes  and  look 
about  you." 

Griselda  did  so.     Where  were  they? 

They  were  floating  about  above  the  top  of  the  house,  which 
Griselda  saw  down  below  them,  looking  dark  and  vast.  She  felt 
confused  and  bewildered. 

"Cuckoo,"  she  said,  "I  don't  understand.  Is  it  I  that  have 
grown  little,  or  you  that  have  grown  big?" 

"Whichever  you  please,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "You  have  for- 
gotten.   I  told  j'ou  long  ago  it  is  all  a  matter  of  fancy." 

"Yes,  if  everything  grew  little  together,"  persisted  Griselda; 
"but  it  isn't  everything.  It's  just  you  or  me,  or  both  of  us.  No, 
it  can't  be  both  of  us.  And  I  don't  think  it  can  be  me,  for  if  any 
of  me  had  grown  little  all  would,  and  my  eyes  haven't  grown 
little,  for  everything  looks  as  big  as  usual,  only  you  a  great  deal 
bigger.  My  eyes  can't  have  grown  bigger  without  the  rest  of 
me,  surely,  for  the  moon  looks  just  the  same.  And  I  must  have 
grown  little,  or  else  we  couldn't  have  get  up  the  chimney.  Oh, 
cuckoo,  you  have  put  all  my  thinking  into  such  a  muddle!" 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "It'll  show  you  how  little 
consequence  big  and  little  are  of.  Make  yourself  comfortable  all 
the  same.  Are  you  all  right?  Shut  your  eyes  if  you  like.  I'm 
going  pretty  fast." 

"Where  to?"     said  Griselda. 

"To  Phil,  of  course,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "What  a  bad  memory 
you  have!    Are  you  comfortable?" 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  93 

"Very,  thank  you,"  replied  Griselda,  giving  the  cuckoo's 
neck  an  affectionate  hug  as  she  spoke. 

"That'll  do,  thank  you.  Don't  throttle  me,  if  it's  quite  the 
same  to  you,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "Here  goes— one,  two,  three," 
and  off  he  flew  again. 

Griselda  shut  her  eyes  and  lay  still.  It  was  delicious — the 
gliding,  yet  darting  motion,  like  nothing  she  had  ever  felt  before. 
It  did  not  make  her  the  least  giddy,  either;  but  a  slightly  sleepy 
feeling  came  over  her.  She  felt  no  inclination  to  open  her  eyes; 
and,  indeed,  at  the  rate  they  were  going,  she  could  have  distin- 
guished very  little  had  she  done  so. 

Suddenly  the  feeling  in  the  air  about  her  changed.  For  an 
instant  it  felt  more  rushy  than  before,  and  there  was  a  queer, 
dull  sound  in  her  ears.    Then  she  felt  that  the  cuckoo  had  stopped. 

"Where  are  we?"  she  asked. 

"We've  just  come  down  a  chimney  again,"  said  the  cuckoo. 
"Open  your  eyes  and  clamber  down  off  my  back;  but  don't  speak 
loud,  or  you'll  waken  him,  and  that  wouldn't  do.  There  you  are — - 
the  moonlight's  coming  in  nicely  at  the  window — you  can  see  your 
way." 

Griselda  found  herself  in  a  little  bedroom,  quite  a  tiny  one, 
and  by  the  look  of  the  simple  furniture  and  the  latticed  window, 
she  saw  that  she  was  not  in  a  grand  house.  But  everything  looked 
very  neat  and  nice,  and  on  a  little  bed  in  one  corner  lay  a  lovely 
sleeping  child.  It  was  Phil!  He  looked  so  pretty  asleep — his 
shaggy  curls  all  tumbling  about,  his  rosy  mouth  half  open  as  if 
smiling,  one  little  hand  tossed  over  his  head,  the  other  tight  clasp- 
ing a  little  basket  which  he  had  insisted  on  taking  to  bed  with 
him,  meaning  as  soon  as  he  was  dressed  the  next  morning  to  run 
out  and  fill  it  with  flowers  for  the  little  girl  he  had  made  friends 
with. 

Griselda  stepped  up  to  the  side  of  the  bed  on  tiptoe.  The 
cuckoo  had  disappeared,  but  Griselda  heard  his  voice.  It  seemed 
to  come  from  a  little  way  up  the  chimney. 


94  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"Don't  wake  him,"  said  the  cuckoo,  "but  whisper  what  you 
want  to  say  into  his  ear,  as  soon  as  I  have  called  him.  He'll 
understand;  he's  accustomed  to  my  ways." 

Then  came  the  old  note,  soft  and  musical  as  ever — 

"Cuckoo,  cuckoo,  cuckoo.  Listen,  Phil,"  said  the  cuckoo,  and 
without  opening  his  eyes  a  change  passed  over  the  little  boy's 
face.    Griselda  could  see  that  he  was  listening  to  hear  her  message. 

"He  thinks  he's  dreaming,  I  suppose,"  she  said  to  herself  with 
a  smile.    Then  she  whispered  softly — 

"Phil,  dear,  don't  come  to  play  with  me  to-morrow,  for  I 
can't  come.  But  come  the,  day  after.  I'll  be  at  the  wood-path 
then." 

"Welly  well,"  murmured  Phil.  Then  he  put  out  his  two  arms 
toAvard  Griselda,  all  without  opening  his  eyes,  and  she,  bending 
down,  kissed  him  softly. 

"Phil's  so  sleepy,"  he  whispered,  like  a  baby  almost.  Then 
he  turned  over  and  went  to  sleep  more  soundly  than  before. 

"That'll  do,"  said  the  cuckoo.     "Come  along,  Griselda." 

Griselda  obediently  made  her  way  to  the  place  whence  the 
cuckoo's  voice  seemed  to  come. 

"Shut  your  eyes  and  put  your  arms  round  my  neck  again," 
said  the  cuckoo. 

She  did  not  hesitate  this  time.  It  all  happened  just  as 
before.  There  came  the  same  sort  of  rushy  sound;  then  the 
cuckoo  stopped,  and  Griselda  opened  her  eyes. 

They  were  up  in  the  air  again — a  good  way  up,  too,  for  some 
grand  old  elms  that  stood  beside  the  farmhouse  were  gently  wav- 
ing their  topmost  branches  a  yard  or  two  from  where  the  cuckoo 
was  poising  himself  and  Griselda. 

"Where  shall  we  go  to  now?"  he  said.  "Or  would  you  rather 
go  home?    Are  you  tired?" 

"Tired!"  exclaimed  Griselda:  I  should  rather  think  not. 
How  could  I  be  tired,  cuckoo?" 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  95 

"Very  well,  don't  excite  yourself  about  nothing,  whatever  you 
do,"  said  the  cuckoo.     "Say  where  you'd  like  to  go." 

"How  can  I?"  said  Griselda.  "You  know  far  more  nice 
places  than  I  do." 

"You  don't  care  to  go  back  to  the  mandarins,  or  the  butter- 
flies, I  suppose?"  asked  the  cuckoo. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Griselda;  "I'd  like  something  new. 
And  I'm  not  sure  that  I  care  for  seeing  any  more  countries  of 
that  kind,  unless  you  could  take  me  to  the  real  fairyland." 

"7  can't  do  that,  you  know,"  said  the  cuckoo. 

Just  then  a  faint  "soughing"  sound  among  the  branches 
suggested  another  idea  to  Griselda. 

"Cuckoo,"  she  exclaimed,  "take  me  to  the  sea.  It's  such  a 
time  since  I  saw  the  sea.  I  can  fancy  I  'hear  it ;  do  take  me  to 
see  it." 

CHAPTER  X 

THE   OTHER   SIDE   OF   THE   MOON 

"That  after  supper  time  has  come, 
And  silver  dews  in  the  meadows  steep. 
And  all  is  silent  in  the  home, 
And  even  nurses  are  asleep, 

That  be  it  late,  or  be  it  soon, 
Upon  this  lovely  night  in  June 
They  both  will  step  into  the  moon." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "You  would  like  to  look 
about  you  a  little  on  the  way,  perhaps,  Griselda,  as  we  shall  not 
be  going  down  chimneys,  or  anything  of  that  kind  just  at  present." 

"Yes,"  said  Griselda.  "I  think  I  should.  I'm  rather  tired 
of  shutting  my  eyes,  and  I'm  getting  quite  accustomed  to  flying 
about  with  you,  cuckoo." 

"Turn  on  your  side,  then,"  said  the  cuckoo,  "and  you  won't 
have  to  twist  your  neck  to  see  over  my  shoulder.  Are  you  com- 
fortable now?     And,  by-the-by,  as  you  may  be  cold,   just  feel 


96  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

under  my  left  wing.  You'll  find  the  feather  mantle  there,  that 
you  had  on  once  before.  Wrap  it  round  you.  I  tucked  it  in  at 
the  last  moment,  thinking  you  might  want  it." 

"Oh,  you  dear,  kind  cuckoo!"  cried  Griselda.  "Yes,  I've 
found  it.  I'll  tuck  it  all  round  me  like  a  rug — that's  it.  I  am 
so  warm  now,  cuckoo." 

"Here  goes,  then,"  said  the  cuckoo,  and  off  they  set.  Had 
ever  a  little  girl  such  a  flight  before?  Floating,  darting,  gliding, 
sailing — no  words  can  describe  it.  Griselda  lay  still  in  delight, 
gazing  all  about  her. 

"How  lovely  the  stars  are,  cuckoo!"  she  said.  "Is  it  true 
they're  all  great,  big  suns?  I'd  rather  they  weren't.  I  like  to 
think  of  them  as  nice,  funny  little  things." 

"They're  not  all  suns,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "Not  all  those  you're 
looking  at  now." 

"I  like  the  twinkling  ones  best,"  said  Griselda.  "They  look 
so  good-natured.  Are  they  all  twirling  about  always,  cuckoo? 
Mr.  Kneebreeches  has  just  begun  to  teach  me  astronomy,  and  he 
says  they  are ;  but  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  he  knows  much  about  it." 

"He's  quite  right  all  the  same,"  replied  the  cuckoo. 

"Oh,  dear  me!  How  tired  they  must  be,  then!"  said  Griselda. 
"Do  they  never  rest  just  for  a  minute?" 

"Never." 

"Why  not?" 

"Obeying  orders,"  replied  the  cuckoo. 

Griselda  gave  a  little  wriggle. 

"What's  the  use  of  it?"  she  said.  "It  would  be  just  as 
nice  if  they  stood  still  now  and  then." 

"Would  it?"  said  the  cuckoo.  "I  know  somebody  who 
would  soon  find  fault  if  they  did.  What  would  you  say  to  no 
summer;  no  day,  or  no  night,  whichever  it  happened  not  to  be. 
you  see;  nothing  growing,  and  nothing  to  eat  before  long?  That's 
what  it  would  be  if  they  stood  still,  you  see,  because " 

"Thank  you,  cuckoo,"  interrupted  Griselda.     "It's  very  nice 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  97 

to  hear  you — I  mean,  very  dreadful  to  think  of,  but  I  don't  want 
you  to  explain.  I'll  ask  Mr.  Kneebreeches  when  I'm  at  my  les- 
sons. You  might  tell  me  one  thing,  however.  What's  at  the 
other  side  of  the  moon?" 

"There's  a  variety  of  opinions,"  said  the  cuckoo. 

"What  are  they?    Tell  me  the  funniest." 

"Some  say  all  the  unfinished  work  of  the  world  is  kept  there," 
said  the  cuckoo. 

"That's  not  funny,"  said  Griselda.  "What  a  messy  place  it 
must  be!  Why,  even  my  unfinished  work  makes  quite  a  heap.  I 
don't  like  that  opinion  at  all,  cuckoo.     Tell  me  another." 

"I  have  heard,"  said  the  cuckoo,  "that  among  the  places  there 
you  would  find  the  country  of  the  little  black  dogs.  You  know 
what  sort  of  creatures  those  are?" 

"Yes,   I  suppose  so,"  said  Griselda,   rather  reluctantly. 

"There  are  a  good  many  of  them  in  this  world,  as  of  course 
you  know,"  continued  the  cuckoo.  "But  up  there,  they  are  much 
worse  than  here.  When  a  child  has  made  a  great  pet  of  one  down 
here,  I've  heard  tell  the  fairies  take  him  up  there  when  his 
parents  and  nurses  think  he's  sleeping  quietly  in  his  bed,  and 
make  him  work  hard  all  night,  with  his  own  particular  little  black 
dog  on  his  back.  And  it's  so  dreadfully  heavy — for  every  time  he 
takes  it  on  his  back  down  here  it  grows  a  pound  heavier  up 
there — that  by  morning  the  child  is  quite  worn  out.  I  dare  say 
3rou've  noticed  how  haggard  and  miserable  some  ill-tempered  chil- 
dren get  to  look — now  you'll  know  the  reason." 

"Thank  you,  cuckoo,"  said  Griselda  again;  "but  I  can't  say 
I  like  this  opinion  about  the  other  side  of  the  moon  any  better 
than  the  first.  If  you  please,  I  would  rather  not  talk  about  it 
any  more." 

"Oh,  but  it's  not  so  bad  an  idea  after  all,"  said  the  cuckoo. 
"Lots  of  children,  they  say,  get  quite  cured  in  the  country  of  the 
little  black  dogs.  It's  this  way — for  every  time  a  child  refuses 
to  take  the  dog  on  his  back  down  here  it  grows  a  pound  lighter 


98  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

up  there,  so  at  last  any  sensible  child  learns  how  much  better  it 
is  to  have  nothing  to  say  to  it  at  all,  and  gets  out  of  the  way  of  it, 
you  see.  Of  course,  there  are  children  whom  nothing  would  cure, 
I  suppose.  What  becomes  of  them  I  really  can't  say.  Very 
likely  they  get  crushed  into  pancakes  by  the  weight  of  the  dogs 
at  last,  and  then  nothing  more  is  ever  heard  of  them." 

"Horrid!"  said  Griselda,  with  a  shudder.  "Don't  let's  talk 
about  it  any  more,  cuckoo;  tell  me  your  own  opinion  about  what 
there  really  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  moon." 

The  cuckoo  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  suddenly  he 
stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  his  flight. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  for  yourself,  Griselda?"  he  said. 
"There  would  be  about  time  to  do  it,"  he  added  to  himself,  "and 
it  would  fulfill  her  other  wish,  too." 

"See  the  moon  for  myself,  do  you  mean?"  cried  Griselda, 
clasping  her  hands.  "I  should  rather  think  I  would.  Will  you 
really  take  me  there,  cuckoo?" 

"To  the  other  side,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "I  couldn't  take  you 
to  this  side." 

"Why  not?  Not  that  I'd  care  to  go  to  this  side  as  much  as 
to  the  other;  for,  of  course,  we  can  see  this  side  from  here.  But 
I'd  like  to  know  why  you  couldn't  take  me  there." 

"For  reasons,"  said  the  cuckoo  drily.  "I'll  give  you  one  if 
you  like.  If  I  took  you  to  this  side  of  the  moon  you  wouldn't 
be  yourself  when  you  got  there." 

"Who  would  I  be,  then?" 

"Griselda,"  said  the  cuckoo,  "I  told  you  once  that  there  are 
a  great  many  things  you  don't  know.  Now,  I'll  tell  you  some- 
thing more.  There  are  a  great  many  things  you're  not  intended 
to  know." 

"Very  well,"  said  Griselda.  "But  do  tell  me  when  you're 
going  on  again,  and  where  you  are  going  to  take  me  to.  There's 
no  harm  my  asking  that?" 

"No,"  said  the  cuckoo,  "I'm  going  on  immediately,  and  I'm 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  99 

going  to  take  you  where  you  wanted  to  go  to,  only  you  must  shut 
your  eyes  again,  and  lie  perfectly  still  without  talking,  for  I  must 
put  on  steam — a  good  deal  of  steam — and  I  can't  talk  to  you. 
Are  you  all  right?" 

"All  right,"  said  Griselda. 

She  had  hardly  said  the  words  when  she  seemed  to  fall  asleep. 
The  rushing  sound  in  the  air  all  round  her  increased  so  greatly 
that  she  was  conscious  of  nothing  else.  For  a  moment  or  two 
she  tried  to  remember  where  she  was,  and  where  she  was  going, 
but  it  was  useless.  She  forgot  everything,  and  knew  nothing 
more  of  what  was  passing  till — till  she  heard  the  cuckoo  again. 

"Cuckoo,  cuckoo;  wake  up,  Griselda,"  he  said. 

Griselda  sat  up. 

Where  was  she? 

Not  certainly  where  she  had  been  when  she  went  to  sleep. 
Not  on  the  cuckoo's  back,  for  there  he  was  standing  beside  her, 
as  tiny  as  usual.  Either  he  had  grown  little  again,  or  she  had 
grown  big — which,  she  supposed,  it  did  not  much  matter.  Only 
it  was  very  queer! 

"Where  am  I,  cuckoo?"  she  said. 

"Where  you  wished  to  he,"  he  replied.  "Look  about  you 
and  see." 

Griselda  looked  about  her.  What  did  she  see.  Something 
that  I  can  only  give  you  a  faint  idea  of,  children;  something 
so  strange  and  unlike  what  she  had  ever  seen  before,  that  only 
in  a  dream  could  you  see  it  as  Griselda  saw  it.  And  yet  why  it 
seemed  to  her  so  strange  and  unnatural  I  cannot  well  explain;  if 
I  could,  my  words  would  be  as  good  as  pictures,  which  I  know 
they  are  not. 

After  all,  it  was  only  the  sea  she  saw;  but  such  a  great, 
strange,  silent  sea,  for  there  were  no  waves.  Griselda  was  seated 
on  the  shore,  close  beside  the  water's  edge,  but  it  did  not  come 
lapping  up  to  her  feet  in  the  pretty,  coaxing  way  that  our  sea  does 
when  it  it  is  in  a  good  humour.    There  were  here  and  there  faint 


100  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

ripples  on  the  surface,  caused  by  the  slight  breezes  which  now  and 
then  came  softly  round  Griselda's  face,  but  that  was  all.  King 
Canute  might  have  sat  "from  then  till  now"  by  this  still,  lifeless 
ocean  without  the  chance  of  reading  his  silly  attendants  a  les- 
son— if,  indeed,  there  ever  were  such  silly  people,  which  I  very 
much  doubt. 

Griselda  gazed  with  all  her  eyes.  Then  she  suddenly  gave 
a  little  shiver. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  the  cuckoo.  "You  have  the  man- 
tle on- — you're  not  cold?" 

"No,"  said  Griselda,  "I'm  not  cold;  but  somehow,  cuckoo, 
I  feel  a  little  frightened.  The  sea  is  so  strange,  and  so  dreadfully 
big;  and  the  light  is  so  queer,  too.  What  is  the  light,  cuckoo?  It 
isn't  moonlight,  is  it?" 

"Not  exactly,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "You  can't  both  have  your 
cake  and  eat  it,  Griselda.  Look  up  at  the  sky.  There's  no 
moon  there,  is  there?" 

"No,"  said  Griselda;  "but  what  lots  of  stars,  cuckoo.  The 
light  comes  from  them,  I  suppose?  And  where's  the  sun,  cuckoo? 
Will  it  be  rising  soon?     It  isn't  always  like  this  up  here,  is  it?" 

"Bless  you,  no,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "There's  sun  enough,  and 
rather  too  much,  sometimes.  How  would  you  like  a  day  a  fort- 
night long,  and  nights  to  match?  If  it  had  been  daytime  here 
just  now,  I  couldn't  have  brought  you.  It's  just  about  the  very 
middle  of  the  night  now,  and  in  about  a  week  of  your  days  the 
sun  will  begin  to  rise,  because,  you  see " 

"Oh,  dear  cuckoo,  please  don't  explain!"  cried  Griselda.  I'll 
promise  to  ask  Mr.  Kneebreeches,  I  will  indeed.  In  fact,  he 
was  telling  me  something  just  like  it  to-day  or  yesterday — which 
should  I  say? — at  my  astronomy  lesson.  And  that  makes  it  so 
strange  that  you  should  have  brought  me  up  here  to-night  to 
see  for  myself,  doesn't  it,  cuckoo?" 

"An  odd  coincidence,"  said  the  cuckoo. 

"What  -would  Mr.  Kneebreeches  think  if  I  told  him  where 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  101 

I  had  been?"   continued   Griselda.      "Only,  you   see,   cuckoo,    I 
never  tell  anybody  about  what  I  see  when  I  am  with  you." 

"No,"  replied  the  cuckoo;  "better  not.  ("Not  that  you 
could  if  you  tried,"  he  added  to  himself.)  You're  not  frightened 
now,  Griselda,  are  you?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  I  am,"  she  replied.  "But,  cuckoo,  isn't 
this  sea  mv fully  big?" 

"Pretty  well,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "Just  half,  or  nearly  half, 
the  size  of  the  moon;  and,  no  doubt,  Mr.  Kneebreeches  has  told 

you  that  the  moon's  diameter  and  circumference  are  respec " 

,  "Oh  don't,  cuckoo!"  interrupted  Griselda,  beseechingly.  "I 
want  to  enjoy  myself,  and  not  to  have  lessons.  Tell  me  some- 
thing funny,  cuckoo.    Are  there  any  mermaids  in  the  moon-sea?" 

"Not  exactly,"  said  the  cuckoo. 

"What  a  stupid  way  to  answer,"  said  Griselda.  "There's 
no  sense  in  that;  there  either  must  be  or  must  not  be.  There 
couldn't  be  half  mermaids." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  replied  the  cuckoo.  "They  might 
have  been  here  once  and  have  left  their  tails  behind  them,  like 
Bopeep's  sheep,  you  know;  and  some  day  they  might  be  coming 
to  find  them  again,  you  know.  That  would  do  for  'not  exactly,' 
wouldn't  it?" 

"Cuckoo,  you're  laughing  at  me,"  said  Griselda.  "Tell  me, 
are  there  any  mermaids,  or  fairies,  or  water-sprites,  or  any  of 
those  sort  of  creatures  here?" 

"I  must  still  say  'not  exactly,'  "  said  the  cuckoo.  "There 
are  beings  here,  or  rather  there  have  been,  and  there  may  be 
again;  but  you,  Griselda,  can  know  no  more  than  this." 

His  tone  was  rather  solemn,  and  again  Griselda  felt  a  little 
"eerie." 

"It's  a  dreadfully  long  way  from  home,  anyway,"  she  said. 
"I  feel  as  if,  when  I  go  back,  I  shall  perhaps  find  I  have  been 
away  fifty  years  or  so,  like  the  little  boy  in   the   fairy   story. 


102  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

Cuckoo,  I  think  I  would  like  to  go  home.  Mayn't  I  get  on  your 
back  again?" 

"Presently,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "Don't  be  uneasy,  Griselda. 
Perhaps  I'll  take  you  home  by  a  short  cut." 

"Was  ever  any  child  here  before?"  asked  Griselda,  after 
a   little   pause. 

"Yes,"  said  the  cuckoo. 

"And  did  they  get  safe  home  again?" 

"Quite,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "It's  so  silly  of  you,  Griselda, 
to  have  all  these  ideas  still  about  far  and  near,  and  big  and  little, 
and  long  and  short,  after  all  I've  taught  you  and  all  you've  seen." 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  said  Griselda  humbly ;  "but  you  see,  cuckoo, 
I  can't  help  it.     I  suppose  I'm  made  so." 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  cuckoo,  meditatively. 

He  was  silent  for  a  minute.  Then  he  spoke  again.  "Look 
over  there,  Griselda,"  he  said.     "There's  the  short  cut." 

Griselda  looked.  Far,  far  over  the  sea,  in  the  silent  dis- 
tance, she  saw  a  tiny  speck  of  light.  It  was  very  tiny;  but  yet 
the  strange  thing  was  that,  far  away  as  it  appeared,  and  minute 
as  it  was,  it  seemed  to  throw  off  a  thread  of  light  to  Griselda's 
very  feet — right  across  the  great  sheet  of  faintly  gleaming  water. 
And  as  Griselda  looked,  the  thread  seemed  to  widen  and  grow, 
becoming  at  the  same  time  brighter  and  clearer,  till  at  last  it  lay 
before  her  like  a  path  of  glowing  light. 

"Am  I  to  walk  along  there?"  she  said  softly  to  the  cuckoo. 

"No,"  he  replied;  "wait." 

Griselda  waited,  looking  still,  and  presently  in  the  middle  of 
the  shining  streak  she  saw  something  slowly  moving — something 
from  which  the  light  came,  for  the  nearer  it  got  to  her  the 
shorter  grew  the  glowing  path,  and  behind  the  moving  object 
the  sea  looked  no  brighter  than  before  it  had  appeared. 

At  last — at  last,  it  came  quite  near — near  enough  for 
Griselda  to  distinguish  clearly  what  it  was. 

It  was  a  little  boat — the  prettiest,  the  loveliest  little  boat  that 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  103 

ever  was  seen ;  and  it  was  rowed  by  a  little  figure  that  at  first  Gris- 
elda  felt  certain  was  a  fairy.  For  it  was  a  child  with  bright  hair 
and  silvery  wings,  which  with  every  movement  sparkled  and  shone 
like  a  thousand  diamonds. 

Griselda  sprang  up  and  clapped  her  hands  with  delight.  At 
the  sound,  the  child  in  the  boat  turned  and  looked  at  her.  For  one 
instant  she  could  not  remember  where  she  had  seen  him  before; 
then  she  exclaimed,  joyfully — 

"It  is  Phil!  Oh,  cuckoo,  it  is  Phil.  Have  you  turned  into 
a  fairy,  Phil?" 

But,  alas,  as  she  spoke  the  light  faded  away,  the  boy's  figure 
disappeared,  the  sea  and  the  shore  and  the  sky  were  all  as  they 
had  been  before,  lighted  only  by  the  faint,  strange  gleaming  of 
the  stars.  Only  the  boat  remained.  Griselda  saw  it  close  to  her, 
in  the  shallow  water,  a  few  feet  from  where  she  stood. 

"Cuckoo,"  she  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  reproach  and  disap- 
pointment, "where  is  Phil  gone?    Why  did  you  send  him  away?" 

"I  didn't  send  him  away,"  said  the  cuckoo.  "You  don't  un- 
derstand. Never  mind,  but  get  into  the  boat.  It'll  be  all  right, 
you'll  see." 

"But  are  we  to  go  away  and  leave  Phil  here,  all  alone  at 
the  other  side  of  the  moon?"  said  Griselda,  feeling  ready  to  cry. 

"Oh,  you  silly  girl!"  said  the  cuckoo.  "Phil's  all  right,  and 
in  some  ways  he  has  a  great  deal  more  sense  than  you,  I  can  tell 
you.  Get  into  the  boat  and  make  yourself  comfortable;  lie 
down  at  the  bottom  and  cover  yourself  up  with  the  mantle.  You 
needn't  be  afraid  of  wetting  your  feet  a  little,  moon  water  never 
gives  cold.     There,  now." 

Griselda  did  as  she  was  told.  She  was  beginning  to  feel  rather 
tired,  and  it  certainly  was  very  comfortable  at  the  bottom  of  the 
boat,  with  the  nice  warm  feather-mantle  well  tucked  round  her. 

"Who  will  row?"  she  said  sleepily.  "You  can't,  cuckoo,  with 
your  tiny  little  claws,  you  could  never  hold  the  oars,  I'm " 


104  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"Hush!"  said  the  cuckoo;  and  whether  he  rowed  or  not  Gris- 
elda  never  knew. 

Off  they  glided  somehow,  but  it  seemed  to  Griselda  that  some- 
body rowed,  for  she  heard  the  soft  dip,  dip  of  the  oars  as  they 
went  along,  so  regularly  that  she  couldn't  help  beginning  to  count 
in  time — one,  two,  three,  four — on,  on — she  thought  she  had  got 
nearly  to  a  hundred,  when 


CHAPTER  XI 

"cuckoo,  cuckoo,  good-bye!" 

"Children,  try  to  be  good! 

That  is  the  end  of  all  teaching; 
Easily  understood, 

And  very  easy  in  preaching. 
And  if  you  find  it  hard, 

Your  efforts  you  need  but   double; 
Nothing  deserves  reward 

Unless  it  has  given  us  trouble." 

When  she  forgot  everything,  and  fell  fast,  fast  asleep,  to 
wiike,  cf  course,  in  her  own  little  bed  as  usual! 

"One  of  your  tricks  again,  Mr.  Cuckoo,"  she  said  to  herself 
with  a  smile.  "However,  I  don't  mind.  It  was  a  short  cut  home, 
and  it  was  very  comfortable  in  the  boat,  and  I  certainly  saw  a 
great  deal  last  night,  and  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you — particu- 
larly for  making  it  all  right  with  Phil  about  not  coming  to  play 
with  me  to-day.  Ah !  that  reminds  me,  I'm  in  disgrace.  I  wonder 
if  Aunt  Grizzel  will  really  make  me  stay  in  my  room  all  day. 
How  tired  I  shall  be,  and  Avhat  will  Mr.  Kneebreeches  think! 
But  it  serves  me  right.     I  was  very  cross  and  rude." 

There  came  a  tap  at  the  door.  It  was  Dorcas  with  the  hot 
water. 

"Good  morning,  missie,"  she  said  gently,  not  feeling,  to  tell 
the  truth,  very  sure  as  to  what  sort  of  a  humour  "missie"  was 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  105 

likely  to  be  found  in  this  morning.     "I  hope  you've  slept  well." 

"Exceedingly  well,  thank  you,  Dorcas.  I've  had  a  delightful 
night,"  replied  Griselda  amiably,  smiling  to  herself  at  the  thought 
of  what  Dorcas  would  say  if  she  knew  where  she  had  been,  and 
what  she  had  been  doing  since  last  she  saw  her. 

"That's  good  news,"  said  Dorcas  in  a  tone  of  relief;  "and 
I've  good  news  for  you,  too,  missie.  At  least,  I  hope  you'll  think 
it  so.  Your  aunt  has  ordered  the  carriage  for  quite  early  this 
morning — so  you  see  she  really  wants  to  please  you,  missie,  about 
playing  with  little  Master  Phil;  and  if  to-morrow's  a  fine  day, 
we'll  be  sure  to  find  some  way  of  letting  him  know  to  come." 

"Thank  you,  Dorcas.  I  hope  it  will  be  all  right,  and  that 
Lady  Lavander  won't  say  anything  against  it.  I  dare  say  she 
won't.  I  feel  ever  so  much  happier  this  morning,  Dorcas;  and 
I'm  very  sorry  I  was  so  rude  to  Aunt  Grizzel,  for  of  course  I 
know  I  should  obey  her." 

"That's  right,  missie,"  said  Dorcas  approvingly. 

"It  seems  to  me,  Dorcas,"  said  Griselda  dreamily,  when,  a 
few  minutes  later,  she  was  standing  by  the  window  while  the  old 
servant  brushed  out  her  thick,  wavy  hair,  "it  seems  to  me,  Dorcas, 
that  it's  all  'obeying  orders'  together.  There's  the  sun  now, 
just  getting  up,  and  the  moon  just  going  to  bed — they  are  always 
obeying,  aren't  they?  I  wonder  why  it  should  be  so  hard  for 
people —  for  children,  at  least." 

"To  be  sure,  missie,  you  do  put  it  a  way  of  your  own,"  replied 
Dorcas,  somewhat  mystified;  "but  I  see  how  you  mean,  I  think, 
and  it's  quite  true.    And  it  is  a  hard  lesson  to  learn." 

"I  want  to  learn  it  well,  Dorcas,"  said  Griselda,  resolutely. 
"So  will  you  please  tell  Aunt  Grizzel  that  I'm  very  sorry  about 
last  night,  and  I'll  do  just  as  she  likes  about  staying  in  my  room 
or  anything.  But,  if  she  would  let  me,  I'd  far  rather  go  down 
and  do  my  lessons  as  usual  for  Mr.  Kneebreeches.  I  won't  ask  to 
go  out  in  the  garden;  but  I  would  like  to  please  Aunt  Grizzel 
by  doing  my  lessons  very  well." 


106  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

Dorcas  was  both  delighted  and  astonished.  Never  had  she 
known  her  little  "missie"  so  altogether  submissive  and  reasonable. 

"I  only  hope  the  child's  not  going  to  be  ill,"  she  said  to  herself. 
But  she  proved  a  skilful  ambassadress,  notwithstanding  her  mis- 
givings; and  Griselda's  imprisonment  confined  her  only  to  the 
bounds  of  the  house  and  terrace  walk,  instead  of  within  the  four 
walls  of  her  own  little  room,  as  she  had  feared. 

Lessons  laere  very  well  done  that  day,  and  Mr.  Kneebreeches' 
report  was  all  that  could  be  wished. 

"I  am  particularly  gratified,"  he  remarked  to  Miss  Grizzel, 
"by  the  intelligence  and  interest  Miss  Griselda  displays  with 
regard  to  the  study  of  astronomy,  which  I  have  recently  begun 
to  give  her  some  elementary  instruction  in.  And,  indeed,  I  have 
no  fault  to  find  Avith  the  way  in  which  any  of  the  young  lady's 
tasks  are  performed." 

"I  am  extremely  glad  to  hear  it,"  replied  Miss  Grizzel  gra- 
ciously, and  the  kiss  with  which  she  answered  Griselda's  request 
for  forgiveness  was  a  very  hearty  one. 

And  it  was  "all  right"  about  Phil. 

Lady  Lavander  knew  all  about  him;  his  father  and  mother 
were  friends  of  hers,  for  whom  she  had  a  great  regard,  and  for 
some  time  she  had  been  intending  to  ask  the  little  boy  to  spend 
the  day  at  Merrybrow  Hall,  to  be  introduced  to  her  goddaughter 
Griselda.  So,  of  course,  as  Lady  Lavander  knew  all  about  him, 
there  could  be  no  objection  to  his  playing  in  Miss  Grizzel's 
garden! 

And  "to-morrow"  turned  out  a  fine  day.  So  altogether  you 
can  imagine  that  Griselda  felt  very  happy  and  light-hearted  as 
she  ran  down  the  wood-path  to  meet  her  little  friend,  whose  rosy 
face  soon  appeared  among  the  bushes. 

"What  did  you  do  yesterday,  Phil?"  asked  Griselda.  "Were 
you  sorry  not  to  come  to  play  with  me?" 

"No,"  said  Phil  mysteriously,  "I  didn't  mind.    I  was  looking 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  107 

for  the  way  to  fairyland  to  show  you,  and  I  do  believe  I've  found 
it.    Oh,  it  is  such  a  pretty  way." 

Griselda  smiled. 

"I'm  afraid  the  way  to  fairyland  isn't  so  easily  found,"  she 
said.    "But  I'd  like  to  hear  about  where  you  went.    Was  it  far?" 

"A  good  way,"  said  Phil.  "Won't  you  come  with  me?  It's 
in  the  wood.  I  can  show  you  quite  well,  and  we  can  be  back  by 
tea-time." 

"Very  well,"  said  Griselda;  and  off  they  set. 

Whether  it  was  the  way  to  fairyland  or  not,  it  was  not  to  be 
wondered  at  that  little  Phil  thought  so.  He  led  Griselda  right 
across  the  wood  to  a  part  where  she  had  never  been  before.  It 
was  pretty  rough  work  part  of  the  way.  The  children  had  to 
fight  with  brambles  and  bushes,  and  here  and  there  to  creep  through 
on  hands  and  knees,  and  Griselda  had  to  remind  Phil  several 
times  of  her  promise  to  his  nurse  that  his  clothes  should  not  be 
the  worse  for  his  playing  with  her,  to  prevent  his  scrambling 
through  "anyhow"  and  leaving  bits  of  his  knickerbockers  behind 
him. 

But  when  at  last  they  reached  Phil's  favourite  spot  all  their 
troubles  were  forgotten.  Oh,  how  pretty  it  was!  It  was  a  sort 
of  tiny  glade  in  the  very  middle  of  the  wood — a  little  green  nest 
enclosed  all  round  by  trees,  and  right  through  it  the  merry  brook 
came  rippling  along  as  if  rejoicing  at  getting  out  into  the  sunlight 
again  for  a  while.  And  all  the  choicest  and  sweetest  of  the  early 
summer  flowers  seemed  to  be  collected  here  in  greater  variety  and 
profusion  than  in  any  other  part  of  the  wood. 

"Isn't  it  nice?"  said  Phil,  as  he  nestled  down  beside  Griselda 
on  the  soft,  mossy  grass.  "It  must  have  been  a  fairies'  garden 
some  time,  I'm  sure,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  one  of  the  doors 
into  fairyland  is  hidden  somewhere  here,  if  only  we  could  find  it." 

"If  only!"  said  Griselda.  "I  don't  think  we  shall  find  it, 
Phil;  but,  any  way,  this  is  a  lovely  place  you've  found,  and  I'd 
like  to  come  here  verv  often." 


108  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

Then  at  Phil's  suggestion  they  set  to  work  to  make  them- 
selves a  house  in  the  centre  of  this  fairies'  garden,  as  he  called 
it.  They  managed  it  very  much  to  their  own  satisfaction,  by 
dragging  some  logs  of  wood  and  big  stones  from  among  the 
brushwood  hard  by,  and  filling  the  holes  up  with  bracken  and 
furze. 

"And  if  the  fairies  do  come  here,"  said  Phil,  "they'll  be  very 
pleased  to  find  a  house  all  ready,  won't  they?" 

Then  they  had  to  gather  flowers  to  ornament  the  house 
inside,  and  dry  leaves  and  twigs  all  ready  for  a  fire  in  one  corner. 
Altogether  it  was  quite  a  business,  I  can  assure  you,  and  when 
it  was  finished  they  were  very  hot  and  very  tired  and  rather  dirty. 
Suddenly  a  thought  struck  Griselda. 

"Phil,"  she  said,  "it  must  be  getting  late." 

"Past  tea-time?"  he  said  coolly. 

"I  dare  say  it  is.  Look  how  low  down  the  sun  has  got. 
Come,  Phil,  we  must  be  quick.  Where  is  the  place  we  came  out 
of  the  wood  at?" 

"Here,"  said  Phil,  diving  at  a  little  opening  among  the 
bushes. 

Griselda  followed  him.  He  had  been  a  good  guide  hitherto, 
and  she  certainly  could  not  have  found  her  way  alone.  They 
scrambled  on  for  some  way,  then  the  bushes  suddenly  seemed  to 
grow  less  thick,  and  in  a  minute  they  came  out  upon  a  little  path. 

"Phil,"  said  Griselda,  "this  isn't  the  way  we  came." 

"Isn't  it?"  said  Phil,  looking  about  him.  "Then  we  must 
have  corned  the  wrong  way." 

"I'm  afraid  so,"  said  Griselda,  "and  it  seems  to  be  so  late 
already.  I'm  so  sorry,  for  Aunt  Grizzel  will  be  vexed,  and 
I  did  so  want  to  please  her.     Will  your  nurse  be  vexed,  Phil?" 

"I  don't  care  if  she  are,"  replied  Phil  valiantly. 

"You  shouldn't  say  that,  Phil.  You  know  we  shouldn't 
have  stayed  so  long  playing." 

"Nebber  mind,"  said  Phil.     "If  it  was  mother  I  would  mind. 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  109 

Mother's  so  good,  you  don't  know.  And  she  never  'colds  me, 
except  when  I  am  naughty — so  I  do  mind." 

"She  wouldn't  like  you  be  out  so  late,  I'm  sure,"  said  Griselda 
in  distress,  "and  it's  most  my  fault,  for  I'm  the  biggest.  Now, 
which  way  shall  we  go?" 

They  had  followed  the  little  path  till  it  came  to  a  point  where 
two  roads,  rough  cart-ruts  only,  met;  or,  rather,  where  the  path 
ran  across  the  road.  Right,  or  left,  or  straight  on,  which  should 
it  be  ?  Griselda  stood  still  in  perplexity.  Already  it  was  growing 
dusk;  already  the  moon's  soft  light  was  beginning  faintly  to 
glimmer  through  the  branches.     Griselda  looked  up  to  the  sky. 

"To  think,"  she  said  to  herself — "to  think  that  I  should  not 
know  my  way  in  a  little  bit  of  a  wood  like  this — I  that  was  up 
at  the  other  side  of  the  moon  last  night." 

The  remembrance  put  another  thought  into  her  mind. 

"Cuckoo,  cuckoo,"  she  said  softly,  "couldn't  you  help  us?" 

Then  she  stood  still  and  listened,  holding  Phil's  cold  little 
hands  in  her  own. 

She  was  not  disappointed.  Presently,  in  the  distance,  came 
the  well-known  cry,  "cuckoo,  cuckoo,"  so  soft  and  far  away,  but 
yet  so  clear. 

Phil  clapped  his  hands. 

"He's  calling  us,"  he  cried  joyfully.  "He's  going  to  show 
us  the  way.  That's  how  he  calls  me  always.  Good  cuckoo,  we're 
coming";  and,  pulling  Griselda  along,  he  darted  down  the  road 
to  the  right —  the  direction  from  whence  came  the  cry. 

They  had  some  way  to  go,  for  they  had  wandered  far  in  a 
wrong  direction,  but  the  cuckoo  never  failed  them.  Whenever 
they  were  at  a  loss — whenever  the  path  turned  or  divided,  they 
heard  his  clear,  sweet  call;  and,  without  the  least  misgiving,  they 
followed  it,  till  at  last  it  brought  them  out  upon  the  high-road, 
a  stone's  throw  from  Farmer  Crouch's  gate. 

"I  know  the  way  now,  good  cuckoo,"  exclaimed  Phil.  "I 
can  go  home  alone  now,  if  your  aunt  will  be  vexed  with  you." 


110  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"No,"  said  Griselda,  "I  must  take  you  quite  all  the  way- 
home,  Phil  dear.  I  promised  to  take  care  of  you,  and  if  nurse 
scolds  any  one  it  must  be  me,  not  you." 

There  was  a  little  bustle  about  the  door  of  the  farmhouse  as 
the  children  wearily  came  up  to  it.  Two  or  three  men  were  stand- 
ing together  receiving  directions  from  Mr.  Crouch  himself,  and 
Phil's  nurse  was  talking  eagerly.  Suddenly  she  caught  sight  of 
the  truants. 

"Here  he  is,  Mr.  Crouch!"  she  exclaimed.  "No  need  now 
to  send  to  look  for  him.  Oh,  Master  Phil,  how  could  you  stay 
out  so  late?  And  to-night  of  all  nights,  just  when  your — I 
forgot,  I  mustn't  say; — come  into  the  parlour  at  once — and  this 
little  girl,  who  is  she?" 

"She  isn't  a  little  girl,  she's  a  young  lady,"  said  Master  Phil, 
putting  on  his  lordly  air.  "And  she's  to  come  into  the  parlour 
and  have  some  supper  with  me,  and  then  some  one  must  take 
her  home  to  her  auntie's  house — that's  what  I  say." 

More  to  please  Phil  than  from  any  wish  for  "supper,"  for 
she  was  really  in  a  fidget  to  get  home,  Griselda  let  the  little  boy 
lead  her  into  the  parlour.  But  she  was  for  a  moment  perfectly 
startled  by  the  cry  that  broke  from  him  when  he  opened  the  door 
and  looked  into  the  room.  A  lady  was  standing  there,  gazing  out 
of  the  window,  though  in  the  quickly  growing  darkness  she  could 
hardly  have  distinguished  the  little  figure  she  was  watching  for 
so  anxiously. 

The  noise  of  the  door  opening  made  her  look  round. 

"Phil,"  she  cried,  "my  own  little  Phil;  where  have  you  been 
to?    You  didn't  know  I  was  waiting  here  for  you,  did  you?" 

"Mother,  mother!"  shouted  Phil,  darting  into  his  mother's 
arms. 

But  Griselda  drew  back  into  the  shadow  of  the  doorway,  and 
tears  filled  her  eyes  as  for  a  minute  or  two  she  listened  to  the 
cooings  and  caressings  of  the  mother  and  son. 

Only  for  a  minute,  however.    Then  Phil  called  to  her. 


THE  CUCKOO  CLOCK  111 

"Mother,  mother,"  he  cried  again,  "you  must  kiss  Griselda, 
too!  She's  the  little  girl  that  is  so  kind,  and  plays  with  me;  and 
she  has  no  mother,"  he  added  in  a  lower  tone. 

The  lady  put  her  arm  round  Griselda,  and  kissed  her,  too. 
She  did  not  seem  surprised. 

"I  think  I  know  about  Griselda,"  she  said  very  kindly,  look- 
ing into  her  face  with  her  gentle  eyes,  blue  and  clear  like  Phil's. 

And  then  Griselda  found  courage  to  say  how  uneasy  she 
was  about  the  anxiety  her  aunts  would  be  feeling,  and  a  mes- 
senger was  sent  off  at  once  to  tell  of  her  being  safe  at  the  farm. 

But  Griselda  herself  the  kind  lady  would  not  let  go  till  she 
had  some  nice  supper  with  Phil,  and  was  both  warmed  and  rested. 

"And  what  were  you  about,  children,  to  lose  your  way?" 
she  asked  presently. 

"I  took  Griselda  to  see  a  place  that  I  thought  was  the  way 
to  fairyland,  and  then  we  stayed  to  build  a  house  for  the  fairies, 
in  case  they  come,  and  then  we  came  out  at  the  wrong  side,  and 
it  got  dark,"  explained  Phil. 

"And  was  it  the  way  to  fairyland?"  asked  the  mother,  smiling. 

Griselda  shook  her  head  as  she  replied 

"Phil  doesn't  understand  yet,"  she  said  gently.  "He  isn't 
old  enough.  The  way  to  the  true  fairyland  is  hard  to  find,  and 
we  must  each  find  it  for  ourselves,  mustn't  we?" 

She  looked  up  in  the  lady's  face  as  she  spoke,  and  saw  that 
she  "understood. 

"Yes,  dear  child,"  she  answered  softly,  and  perhaps  a  very 
little  sadly.  "But  Phil  and  you  may  help  each  other,  and  I 
perhaps  may  help  you  both." 

Griselda  slid  her  hand  into  the  lady's.  "You're  not  going 
to  take  Phil  away,  are  you?"  she  whispered. 

"No,  I  have  come  to  stay  here,"  she  answered,  "and  Phil's 
father  is  coming  too,  soon.  We  are  going  to  live  at  the  White 
House — the  house  on  the  other  side  of  the  wood,  on  the  way  to 
Merrybrow.     Are  you  glad,  children?" 


112  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

Griselda  had  a  curious  dream  that  night — merely  a  dream, 
nothing  else.  She  dreamt  that  the  cuckoo  came  once  more;  this 
time,  he  told  her,  to  say  "good-bye." 

"For  you  will  not  need  me  now,"  he  said.  "I  leave  you  in 
good  hands,  Griselda.  You  have  friends  now  who  will  under- 
stand you — friends  who  will  help  you  both  to  work  and  to  play. 
Better  friends  than  the  mandarins,  or  the  butterflies,  or  even  than 
your  faithful  old  cuckoo." 

And  when  Griselda  tried  to  speak  to  him,  to  thank  him  for 
his  goodness,  to  beg  him  still  sometimes  to  come  to  see  her,  he 
gently  fluttered  away.  "Cuckoo,  cuckoo,  cuckoo,"  he  warbled ;  but 
somehow  the  last  "cuckoo"  sounded  like  "good-bye." 

In  the  morning,  when  Griselda  awoke,  her  pillow  was  wet 
with  tears.  Thus  many  stories  end.  She  was  happy,  very  happy 
in  the  thought  of  her  kind  new  friends;  but  there  were  tears  for 
the  one  she  felt  she  had  said  farewell  to,  even  though  he  was  only 
a  cuckoo  in  a  clock. 


THE 
SIX  POOR  LITTLE  PRINCESSES 

"And  all  the  Christ  Child's  other  gifts  .    .    . 
.    .    .  but  still — but  still — 
The  doll  seem'd  all  my  waking  thoughts  to  fill.    ..." 

The  Doll  that  ne'er  was  Mine. 

There  were  six  of  them,  beginning  with  Helen  and  ending 
with  Baby,  and  as  Helen  was  only  twelve  and  Baby  already  five, 
it  is  easy  to  understand  that  they  were  all  pretty  near  of  a  size. 
But  they  weren't  really  princesses.  That  was  all  Jinny's  plan- 
ning. Indeed  most  things  which  were  nice  or  amusing  or  at  all 
"out-of-the-way"  were  Jinny's  planning. 

Jinny's  long  name  was  Ginevra.  She  came  third.  Helen  and 
Agatha  were  in  front  of  her,  and  below  her  came  Elspeth  and 
Belinda  and  Baby.  Baby  had  a  proper  name,  I  suppose,  but  I 
never  heard  it,  and  so  I  can't  tell  you  what  it  was.  And  as  no 
one  ever  did  hear  it,  I  don't  see  that  it  much  matters.  Nor  would 
it  have  mattered  much  if  Belinda  had  had  no  proper  name  either, 
for  she  was  never  called  anything  but  Butter-ball.  The  story  was 
that  it  was  because  she  was  so  fat;  and  as,  like  many  fat  people, 
she  was  very  good-natured,  she  did  not  mind. 

They  were  all  together  in  the  nursery,  together  but  alone,  as 
was  rather  often  the  case;  for  they  had  no  kind,  comfortable  old 
nurse  to  spoil  and  scold  them  by  turns,  poor  children,  only  a  girl 
that  Miss  Burton,  the  lady  whom  they  lived  with,  kept  "to  do 
the  nursery  work,"  which  does  not  sound  like  being  a  nice  nurse 
at  all,  though  I  suppose  Miss  Burton  did  not  understand  the 
difference.  There  were  a  good  many  things  she  did  not  under- 
stand. She  liked  the  children  to  be  neatly  dressed,  and  to  have 
good  plain  food  in  plenty ;  she  was  very  particular  that  they  should 

113 


114  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

do  their  lessons  and  go  for  a  walk  every  day  when  it  was  fine 
enough,  but  that  was  about  all  she  thought  of.  She  did  not  think 
they  needed  any  fun  except  what  they  could  make  for  themselves, 
and  even  then  it  must  not  be  too  noisy;  she  could  not  understand 
that  they  could  possibly  be  "dull,"  caged  up  in  their  nursery. 
"Dull,"  when  there  were  six  of  them  to  play  together?  She 
would  have  laughed  at  the  idea. 

They  had  few  story-books  and  fewer  toys.  So  they  had  to 
invent  stories  for  themselves,  and  as  for  the  toys,  to  make  believe 
very  much  indeed.  But  how  they  would  have  succeeded  in  either 
had  it  not  been  for  Jinny  I  should  be  afraid  to  say. 

"It's  a  shame — a  regular  shame,"  said  Ginevra.  She  was 
sitting  on  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  with  Elspeth  beside 
her.  The  two  little  ones  were  cross-legged  on  the  floor,  very  dis- 
consolately nursing  the  battered  remains  of  two  very  hideous  old 
dolls,  who  in  their  best  days  could  never  have  been  anything  but 
coarse  and  common,  and  Helen  and  Agatha  sat  together  on  a 
chair  with  a  book  in  their  hands,  which,  however,  they  were  not 
reading.  "It's  a  shame,"  Ginevra  repeated;  "even  the  little  princes 
in  the  tower  had  toys  to  play  with." 

"Had  they?"  said  Helen.     "Is  that  in  the  history,  Jinny?" 

"It's  in  some  history;  anyway,  I'm  sure  I've  heard  it,"  Jinny 
replied. 

"But  this  isn't  a  tower,"  said  Agatha. 

"No,  it's  a  dungeon,"  replied  Ginevra  grimly.  "And  if  any 
of  you  besides  me  had  the  spirit  of  a  true  princess,  you  wouldn't 
stand  it." 

"We  don't  want  to  stand  it  any  more  than  you  do,"  Helen 
said  quietly.  "But  what  are  we  to  do?  You  don't  want  to  run 
away,  do  you?  Where  could  Ave  run  to?  It  isn't  as  if  papa  was 
anywhere  in  England.  Besides,  we're  not  starved  or  beaten,  and 
we're  in  no  danger  of  having  our  heads  cut  off." 

"I'd  rather  we  were — there'd  be  some  fun  in  that,"  said 
Princess  Jinny. 


THE  SIX  POOR  LITTLE  PRINCESSES         115 

"Fun!"  repeated  Agatha. 

"Well,  it  Avouldn't  be  as  stupid  as  being  shut  up  here  in  this 
dreary  old  nursery — I  mean  dungeon,"  said  Ginevra.  "And  now 
that  our  cruel  gaoler  has  refused  to  let  us  have  the  small  solace  of 

— of  a "  she  could  not  find  any  more  imposing  word — "doll  to 

play  with,  I  think  the  time  has  come  to  take  matters  into  our 
own  hands,  princesses." 

"I've  no  objection,"  said  Helen  and  Agatha,  speaking  to- 
gether.    "But  what  do  you  mean  to  do?" 

"You  shouldn't  call  Miss  Burton  a  gaoler — she  isn't  as  bad 
as  that;  besides,  she's  not  a  man,"  said  Elspeth,  who  had  not  be- 
fore spoken.  "We  might  call  her  the  governor — no,  governess; 
but  that  sounds  so  funny,  'governess  of  the  tower,'  or  custo — then 
some  word  like  that,  of  the  castle." 

"But  this  isn't  a  tower — we've  fixed  that — nor  a  castle.  It's 
just  a  dungeon — that'll  do  very  well,  and  it's  great  fun  at  night 
when  we  put  out  the  candles  and  grope  about  in  the  dark.  And 
gaoler  will  do  very  well  for  Miss  Burton — some  are  quite  kind, 
much  kinder  than  she." 

"It's  all  along  of  our  never  having  had  any  mamma,"  said 
a  slow,  soft  little  voice  from  the  floor. 

"Princess  Butter-ball,  what  a  vulgar  way  of  speaking  you 
have! — 'all  along  of — I'm  ashamed  of  you,"  said  Jinny  severely. 

"Besides,  Ave  did  have  a  mamma  once — all  except "  and  she 

glanced  at  Baby,  but  without  finishing  her  sentence.  For  had 
she  done  so  poor  Princess  Baby  would  have  burst  into  loud  sobs; 
it  was  a  very  sore  point  with  her  that  she  had  never  had  a  mamma 
at  all,  whereas  all  the  others,  even  Butter-ball,  were  perfectly  sure 
they  could  remember  their  mother. 

"If  Aunt  Ginevra  would  come  home,"  sighed  Elspeth. 
"We've  always  been  promised  she  would." 

"And  she's  written  us  kind  letters,"  added  Agatha. 

"What's  letters?"  said  Jinny  contemptuously. 

"Well,  you  needn't  complain,"  said  Helen.     "She  sent  you  a 


116  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

silver  mug — real  silver — and  that's  more  than  any  of  our  god- 
mothers did  for  the  rest  of  us." 

"Yes,  she  did,"  said  Jinny,  "and  it's  fortunate  for  us  all, 
princesses,  that  through  all  our  troubles  I  have  always  kept  that 
one — memento  of  happier  days  about  my  person " 

"What  stories,  Jinny!"  Agatha  exclaimed.  "At  least  it's 
stories  if  you're  being  real  just  now.  You  mix  up  princess-ing 
and  real,  so  that  I  get  quite  muddled.  But,  you  know,  you  don't 
carry  the  mug  about  with  you." 

For  all  answer,  Princess  Ginevra,  after  some  fumbling  in  her 
pocket,  drew  out  a  short,  thick  parcel  wrapped  in  tissue-paper, 
which  she  unfolded,  and  held  up  to  view  a  silver  mug. 

"There  now,"  she  said. 

Agatha  looked  rather  crestfallen. 

"It  must  be  very  uncomfortable  to  have  that  lumpy  thing 
in  your  pocket,  and  some  day  Miss  Burton  will  be  asking  where 
it's  gone,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  it  makes  you  fancy  yourself  more 
a  princess,  but  I'm  getting  rather  tired  of  fancies.  Now  if  we 
only  had  a  beautiful  doll,  and  could  all  work  at  dressing  it,  that 
would  be  worth  something." 

"And  we  might  go  on  being  princesses  all  the  same,  or  even 
more,"  put  in  Elspeth. 

"Patience,"  said  Jinny,  "patience  and  courage.  Leave  it 
to  me.  I  think  I  see  my  way.  I  have  my  eye  on  a  trusty  adher- 
ent, and  if  I  am  not  much  mistaken,  you  shall  have  a  doll  before 
Christmas." 

All  five  pricked  up  their  ears  at  this — they  had  all  at  the 
bottom  of  their  hearts  the  greatest  faith  in  Ginevra,  though  the 
elder  ones  now  and  then  felt  it  necessary  to  snub  her  a  little. 

"Are  you  in  earnest,  Jinny?"  said  Helen;  "and  if  you  are, 
I  wish  you'd  tell  us  what  you  mean.    Who  is  the  trusty  adherent?" 

"I  know,"  said  Agatha.  "It's  the  red-haired  boy  next  door. 
Jinny  dropped  her  umbrella  the  other  day  and  he  picked  it  up  for 


THE  SIX  POOR  LITTLE  PRINCESSES         117 

her,  and  she  stopped  to  thank  him — that  day  we  had  colds  and 
couldn't  go  out,  Helen." 

"No,"  said  Elspeth;  "it  was  Jinny  that  picked  up  some  of 
his  books  that  dropped — he  was  carrying  such  a  pile  of  awful 
messy  ragged  ones.    He  must  go  to  a  messy  school." 

"He  was  not  going  to  school,"  said  Ginevra.  "He  was  taking 
these  old  books  to — but  no,  I  must  not  betray  him." 

"Rubbish,"  said  Agatha;  "he  can't  be  more  than  nine.  What 
could  there  be  to  betray?  He's  not  a  shut-up  prince,  Jinny.  Do 
talk  sense  for  once." 

Ginevra  changed  her  tone. 

"I  don't  want  to  tell  you,"  she  said  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice, 
"for  fear  of  disappointing  you  all.  Just  wait  a  very  few  days 
and  then  I'll  tell  you.  But  first,  supposing  we  could  get  a  doll, 
what  should  it  be  like — fair  or  dark?" 

"Dark,  black  hair  and  brown  eyes,"  replied  all  the  five  voices. 
For  the  six  princesses  had  fair  curls  and  blue  eyes,  so,  naturally, 
they  preferred  a  contrast. 

"Hum,"  said  Jinny.  "Brown  hair,  perhaps,  but  not  black. 
The  black-haired  dolls  in  the  shop-windows  look  common." 

"Never  mind.  Any  haired  would  do  so  long  as  we  got  her," 
said  Agatha.  "But  don't  talk  about  it.  It  does  make  me  want 
her  so  dreadfully." 

.  Late  that  afternoon,  just  about  the  time  that  the  little  boy 
next  door  would  be  coming  home  from  school,  a  small  figure  with 
a  shawl  drawn  over  its  head  might  have  been  seen  at  Miss 
Burton's  front  gate.  She  had  waited  patiently  for  some  minutes. 
At  last  she  was  rewarded  by  the  sight,  or  the  sound  rather,  for 
it  was  almost  too  dark  to  see  any  one,  of  Master  Red-Head 
coming  up  the  road.  When  he  got  close  to  his  own  door  she 
called  out.  It  was  rather  difficult  to  do  so,  for  she  had  no  idea 
what  his  name  was. 

"Master — Mr. — "  she  began,  and  then  changing  suddenly, 
"boy,  please,  I  don't  know  your  name." 


118  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

He  stopped  and  came  up  to  her,  exclaiming  of  course,  "I 
say  who's  there?     What's  up?" 

"It's  me — Prin — I  mean  one  of  the  little  girls  next  door,  the 
one  who  picked  up  your  old  books  the  other  day.  I  want  to  ask 
you  something,  please." 

Red-Head  was  all  attention,  and  the  two  went  on  talking  for 
some  minutes. 

"You're  sure  he  will?"  said  Jinny  at  last. 

"Quite  positive.  I'll  get  all  out  of  him  I  can.  It's  real  sil- 
ver, you  say." 

"Real,  pure  silver,"  she  replied. 

"And — and  it's  your  very  own?  I  mean  you  may  do  what 
jrou  like  with  it?"  Red-Head  went  on,  for  he  was  a  boy  with  a 
conscience. 

"Of  course  it's  my  own.  Do  you  think  I'd  steal?"  exclaimed 
Jinny  indignantly,  so  indignantly  that  she  omitted  to  answer  his 
second  question,  not  even  asking  it  of  herself. 

"No,  no,  of  course  not.  But  you  know — I  wouldn't  get 
leave  to  sell  my  watch  though  it's  my  own.  Only  I  suppose  it's 
all  because  you've  no  father  and  mother  to  look  after  you.  It's 
very  hard  on  you  to  have  no  toys.  I  suppose  girls  can't  live  with- 
out dolls.  But  I  say,  tell  me  again  about  the  doll.  I'll  have 
to  do  it  all  at  once,  for  we're  going  away  for  the  holidays  the  day 
after  tomorrow." 

"You're  to  get  all  the  money  you  can,  and  the  very  prettiest 
doll  you  can  have  for  the  money.  With  brown  hair,  remember- — 
not  light,  we're  tired  of  light,  we've  all  got  it  ourselves — and  not 
black,  black's  common." 

"And  not  red,  I  suppose.  You  may  as  well  say  it.  I  don't 
mind." 

"Well,  no,"  said  Ginevra  hesitatingly.  She  would  not  for 
worlds  have  hurt  his  feelings— no  princess  would  so  treat  a  trusty 
adherent — yet  she  could  not  pretend  to  a  weakness  for  red  hair. 
"I  think  we'd  like  brown  best." 


THE  SIX  POOR  LITTLE  PRINCESSES         119 

"All  right.  Then  to-morrow  afternoon,  just  about  this  time. 
It's  a  half-holiday — we're  breaking  up,  but  it's  best  to  wait  till 
dark  for  fear  you  should  get  a  scolding.  I'll  be  here  just  about 
this  time,  with — you  know  what." 

"Thank  you,  oh,  thank  you  so  much,"  and  Ginevra  held  out 
her  hand,  half  expecting  him  to  kiss  it,  instead  of  which,  however, 
he  gave  it  a  schoolboy  shake. 

"I  can  excuse  it,  however;  he  could  not  be  expected  to  under- 
stand," she  said  to  herself  as  she  flew  up  to  the  nursery. 

She  could  scarcely  sleep  that  night,  and  the  next  morning  it 
was  all  she  could  do  to  keep  her  secret.  But  there  was  plenty  of 
determination  under  Princess  Jinny's  fair  curls,  and  by  dint  of 
much  squeezing  of  her  lips  together  and  saying  to  herself  what  a 
pit}r  it  would  be  to  spoil  the  beautiful  "surprise,"  she  managed 
to  get  through  the  morning  without  doing  more  than  dropping 
some  mysterious  hints.  But  how  long  the  day  seemed,  short  as  it 
really  was!  Would  it  never  get  dark?  For  it  was  clear  and 
frosty,  and  the  afternoon,  to  Jinny,  appeared,  out  of  contradic- 
tion, to  be  twice  as  long  as  usual  of  closing  in. 

"All  comes,  however  to  him  (or  her)  who  waits,"  and  the 
blissful  moment  at  last  arrived  when  Ginevra  found  herself  run- 
ning upstairs,  though  not  so  fast  as  the  evening  before,  for  fear 
of  dropping  the  precious  parcel  she  held  in  her  arms. 

"The  dear,  sweet  boy,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I'd  have  liked 
to  kiss  him.     Perhaps  we  all  might  when  he  comes  home  again." 

For  Red-Head's  last  words  had  been  a  charge  not  to  forget 
to  let  him  know  after  the  holidays  if  Miss  Dolly  was  approved  of. 

Ginevra  burst  into  the  nursery. 

"Princesses,"  she  exclaimed,  "shut  your  eyes,  while  I  un- 
wrap her.     "I'll  shut  mine  too.     I  haven't  seen  her  myself." 

"Is  it — can  it  be — the  doll?"  they  all  cried,  and  their  hearts 
nearly  stopped  beating  with  excitement. 

"Now,"  Jinny  exclaimed. 

They  all  pressed  forward.     All  six  pairs  of  eyes  were  fixed 


120  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

on  Jinny's  lap,  but  not  a  sound  was  heard.  A  blank  look  of  dis- 
appointment fell  over  every  face.  Red-Head,  poor  Red-Head  had 
done  his  best,  but  oh,  what  a  mistake!  He  had  bought  a  dressed 
doll,  and  as  ten  and  sixpence,  which  was  all  he  had  got  for  the  mug, 
will  not  go  very  far  in  such  articles,  it  can  be  imagined  that  Dolly 
herself,  notwithstanding  the  gorgeousness  of  her  attire,  fell  short, 
lamentably  short  of  the  poor  princesses'  expectations. 

"She's  only  china,  and  her  hair's  a  put-on  wig,"  said  Agatha, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Her  clothes  don't  even  take  off  and  on,  and  they're  not  a 
bit  like  a  little  girl's  clothes,"  said  Elspeth. 

Ginevra  said  not  a  word;  her  face  told  of  nothing  less  than 
despair. 

"And  poor  darling  Jimry  has  sold  her  mug  to  buy  it  with — 
all  to  please  us.  I  found  it  out,  but  it  was  too  late  to  stop  it," 
said  Helen.  "Jinny  darling,  we  must  like  her,  we  "will — -anyway 
she'll  be  better  than  nothing.  We'll  make  her  new  clothes,  and 
then  perhaps  she  won't  look  so  vulgar,"  whereupon,  Helen  setting 
the  example,  all  the  five  princesses  fell  upon  Jinny's  neck  and 
hugged  and  kissed  her  and  each  other  amidst  their  tears. 

"And  we  mustn't  tell  Red-Head,"  said  Jinny;  "he'd  be  so 
disappointed.  He  did  his  best.  I  never  thought  of  saying  she 
wasn't  to  be  dressed.  He's  going  away  to-morrow,  and  of  course 
they  wouldn't  change  the  doll  after  he  comes  back.  Besides,  she  is 
better  than  nothing,  surely?" 

Christmas  Eve — the  six  princesses  sat  on  the  window-sill 
looking  out  on  the  fast-falling  snow.  Dolly — partially  denuded  of 
her  gorgeous  attire,  but  looking  rather  woe-begone,  if  less  self- 
satisfied  and  vulgar,  for  new  clothes  "to  take  on  and  off,"  and  of 
irreproachable  good  taste,  are  not  to  be  fashioned  by  little  fingers 
in  a  day — was  reposing  in  Butter-ball's  fat  arms.  They  "took 
turns"  of  her,  as  was  the  fairest  arrangement  under  the  circum- 
stances of  six  little  girls  and  only  one  doll ;  and,  true  to  the  sound 
philosophy  of  her  being  "better  than  nothing,"   a  certain  half- 


DUFFIELD     a     COMPANY 

"What  could   be  lovelier,   what  more   perfect,   than    the   mx   exquisite   dolls,   each 
more  beautiful   than   her  sister." 


THE  SIX  POOR  LITTLE  PRINCESSES         121 

contemptuous  affection  for  her  had  taken  the  place  of  the  first 
dislike. 

Suddenly — rat-tat-tat  at  the  front  knocker. 

"The  postman,"  said  Helen.  "Possibly  there  may  be  a 
Christmas   card  for  us." 

It  was  for  "us,"  but  it  was  not  a  card.  No;  a  letter,  ad- 
dressed outside  to  Helen  as  the  eldest,  but  inside  beginning  "My 
six  dear  little  nieces." 

"From  Aunt  Ginevra,"  Helen  exclaimed;  "and  oh,  she  is 
coming  home  at  last.  And  oh,  oh,  just  fancy,  we  are  all  to  go  to 
live  with  her.     And — and " 

"Read  it  aloud,"  said  Jinny  quickly.  But  Helen  was  all 
trembling  with  excitement.    Jinny  seized  it  and  read. 

Delightful  news  truly  for  the  six  imprisoned  princesses! 

"She  must  be  nice,"  said  Jinny;  "she  writes  so  sweetly.  And 
what  can  the  presents  be  that  she  says  she  is  sending  us  for 
Christmas?" 

Agatha  looked  over  her  shoulder. 

"I  have  chosen  what  I  think  would  have  pleased  me  most 
when  I  was  a  little  girl.  The  box  is  sent  off  by  express  from 
Paris,  where  your  uncle  and  I  are  resting  for  a  few  days,  so  that 
you  may  have  it  by  Christmas.  And  before  the  new  year  begins, 
my  darlings,  I  hope  to  be  at  last  with  you." 

Rat-tat-tat  again.  The  railway  van  this  time.  Such  a 
big  box  comes  up  to  the  nursery.  Dear,  dear,  what  a  business  to 
get  it  opened.  How  the  six  pairs  of  eyes  shine,  how  the  six  pairs 
of  hands  tremble  with  eagerness  as  each  undoes  her  own  specially 
marked  parcel.  And  oh,  the  cries  of  delight  at  last!  What  could 
be  lovelier,  what  more  perfect,  than  the  six  exquisite  dolls,  each 
more  beautiful  than  her  sisters! 

"Real  wax,  real  hair,  real  everysing,"  cries  Princess  Baby. 

"One  suit  of  clothes  ready,  taking  off  and  on  ones,  and  lots 
of  stuff  to  make  more,"  adds  Butter-ball. 


122  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"Oh,  how  sweet  Auntie  must  be,  how  happy  we  are  going  to 
be!"  cry  all. 

But  Jinny's  face  is  sad. 

"My  poor,  ugly  dolly,"  she  murmurs.  "And  oh,  what  shall 
I  say  if  Auntie  asks  for  my  jug?" 

"We'll  tell  her — all  of  us  together.  It  was  all  for  our  sakes 
you  did  it,  and  so  she  can't  be  angry,"  say  the  other  five. 

"And  Jinny,  I  do  think  the  old  doll  would  make  a  beautiful 
maid  for  the  others ;  she  really  couldn't  look  vulgar  in  a  neat  print 
frock  and  white  apron." 

Ginevra  brightens  up  at  this. 

"All  the  same,"  she  said,  "I  wish  now  we  had  waited  a  little 
and  believed  that  Auntie  would  come  as  soon  as  she  could.  I  see 
that  it  would  have  been  better.  And  oh,  I  do  so  hope  she  won't 
be  vexed." 

She  was  not  vexed ;  only  very,  very  sorry.  More  deeply  sorry 
than  the  princesses  themselves  could  understand. 

"I  had  no  idea  of  it  all,"  said  poor  Auntie.  "Yet  I  could  not 
have  come  to  you  sooner,  my  darlings.  Still — if  I  had  known — 
But  it  is  all  over  now,  and  you  are  going  to  be  as  happy  as  ever 
your  Auntie  can  make  you." 

"And  it's  almost  the  same  as  having  a  mamma,  isn't  it?"  said 
Baby,  satisfied  that  in  this  possession  she  had  an  undoubted  share. 

The  mug  was  reclaimed.  And  the  dealer,  who  had  paid  far 
too  little  for  it,  was  well  frightened  by  no  less  a  person  than  Uncle 
himself. 

Poor  Red-Head  never  knew  how  he  had  failed.  But  Auntie, 
Avho  got  to  know  his  father  and  mother,  was  able,  without  hurting 
his  feelings,  to  make  him  understand  that  little  boys  do  well  to 
keep  out  of  such  transactions  even  when  inspired  by  the  kindest 
of  motives. 


TOO  BAD 

"It  is  the  mynd  that  maketh  good  or  ill, 
That  maketh  wretch  or  happie,  rich  or  poore." 

Spenser. 

Chapter  I 

"It's  too  bad!"  said  Miss  Judy;  "I  declare  it's  really 
too  bad!"  and  she  came  stumping  along  the  road  after  her  nurse, 
looking  decidedly  "put  out." 

"It  would  be  something  new  if  it  wasn't  too  bad  with  you, 
Miss  Judy,  about  something  or  other,"  said  nurse  coolly. 

Miss  Judy  was  a  kind-hearted,  gentle-mannered  little  girl. 
She  was  pretty  and  healthy  and  clever — the  sort  of  child  any 
parents  might  have  been  proud  of,  any  brothers  and  sisters  fond 
of,  had  not  all  her  niceness  been  spoiled  by  one  most  disagreeable 
fault.  She  was  always  grumbling.  The  hot  days  of  summer,  the 
cold  days  of  winter,  the  rain,  the  wind,  the  dust,  might,  to  hear 
her  speak,  have  been  expressly  contrived  to  annoy  her.  When 
it  was  fine  and  the  children  were  to  go  out  for  a  walk,  Miss 
Judy  was  sure  to  have  something  she  particularly  wanted  to 
say  in  for;  when  it  rained,  and  the  house  was  evidently  the 
best  place  for  little  people,  Miss  Judy  was  quite  certain  to  have 
set  her  heart  upon  going  out.  She  grumbled  at  having  to 
get  up,  she  grumbled  at  having  to  go  to  bed,  she  grumbled  at 
lessons,  she  grumbled  at  play;  she  could  not  see  that  little  con- 
tradictions and  annoyances  came  to  everybody  in  the  world,  and 
that  the  only  way  to  do  is  to  meet  them  bravely  and  sensibly.  She 
really  seemed  to  believe  that  nobody  had  so  much  to  bear  as  she; 
that  on  her  poor  little  shoulders  all  the  tiresomenesses  and  disap- 
pointments, and  "going  the  wrong  way"  of  things,  were  heaped  in 
double,  and  more  than  double  quantities,  and  she  persuaded  herself 
that  everybody  she  saw  was  better  off  than  herself,  and  that  no  one 
else  had  such  troubles  to  bear.    So  children,  you  will  not  be  sur- 

123 


124  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

prised  to  hear  that  poor  Miss  Judy  was  not  loved  or  respected  as 
much  as  some  little  girls  who  perhaps  really  deserved  love  and 
respect  less.  For  this  ugly  disagreeable  fault  of  hers  hid  all  her 
good  qualities;  and  just  as  flowers  can  not  flourish  when  shaded 
from  the  nice  bright  sun  by  some  rank,  wide-spreading  weed,  so 
Judy's  pretty  blossoms  of  kindness  and  unselfishness  and  truth- 
fulness, which  were  all  Teally  there,  were  choked  and  withered 
by  this  poisonous  habit  of  grumbling. 

I  do  not  really  remember  what  it  was  she  was  grumbling 
at  this  particular  morning.  I  dare  say  it  was  that  the  roads 
were  muddy,  for  it  was  autumn,  and  Judy's  home  was  in  the 
country.  Or,  possibly,  it  was  only  that  nurse  had  told  her  to 
walk  a  little  quicker,  and  that  immediately  her  boots  began  to 
hurt  her,  or  the  place  on  her  heel  where  once  there  had  been 
a  chilblain  got  sore,  or  the  elastic  of  her  hat  was  too  loose,  and 
her  hat  came  flopping  down  on  to  her  face.  It  might  have  been 
any  of  these  things.  Whatever  it  was,  it  was  "too  bad."  That, 
whenever  Miss  Judy  was  concerned,  you  might  be  quite,  quite 
sure  of. 

They  were  returning  home  from  rather  a  long  walk.  It  was 
autumn,  as  I  said,  and  there  had  been  a  week  or  two  of  almost 
constant  rain,  and  certainly  country  lanes  are  not  very  pleasant 
at  such  times.  If  Judy  had  not  grumbled  so  at  everything, 
she  might  have  been  forgiven  for  this  special  grumble  (if  it  was 
about  the  roads),  I  do  think.  It  was  getting  chilly  and  raw, 
and  the  clouds  looked  as  if  the  rain  was  more  than  half  thinking 
of  turning  back  on  its  journey  to  "Spain,"  or  Avherever  it  was 
it  had  set  off  to.  Nurse  hurried  on;  she  was  afraid  of  the  little 
ones  in  the  perambulator  catching  cold,  and  she  could  not  spare 
time  to  talk  to  Miss  Judy  any  longer. 

Judy  came  after  her  slowly;  they  were  just  passing  some 
cottages,  and  at  the  door  of  one  of  them  stood  a  girl  of  about 
Judy's  age,  with  her  mouth  open,  staring  at  "the  little  gentry." 
She  had  heard  what  had  passed  between  Judy  and  her  nurse, 


TOO  BAD  125 

ana"  was  thinking  it  over  in  her  own  way.  Suddenly  Judy  caught 
sight  of  her. 

"What  are  you  staring  at  so?"  she  said  sharply.  "It's  too 
had  of  you.  You  are  a  rude  little  girl.  I'll  tell  nurse  how  rude 
you  are." 

Judy  did  not  generally  speak  so  crossly,  especially  not  to 
poor  children,  for  she  had  really  nice  feelings  about  such  things, 
but  she  was  very  much  put  out,  and  ashamed  too,  that  her  ill- 
natured  words  to  nurse  should  have  been  overheard,  so  she  ex- 
pressed her  vexation  to  the  first  object  that  came  in  her  way. 
The  little  girl  did  not  leave  off  staring  at  her;  in  fact  she  did 
so  harder  than  before.  But  she  answered  Judy  gently,  growing 
rather  red  as  she  did  so;  and  Judy  felt  her  irritation  cool. 

"I  didn't  mean  no  offence,"  she  said.  "I  were  just  looking 
at  you,  and  thinking  to  be  sure  how  nice  you  had  everything, 
and  a-wondering  how  it  could  be  as  you  weren't  pleased." 

"Who  said  I  wasn't  pleased?"  said  Judy. 

"You  said  as  something  was  a  deal  too  bad,"  replied  the 
child. 

"Well,  so  it  was, — it  must  have  been,  I  mean, — or  else  I 
wouldn't  have  said  so,"  answered  Judy,  who,  to  tell  the  truth 
had  by  this  time  quite  forgotten  what  particular  trouble  had 
been  the  cause  of  her  last  grumble.  "How  do  you  mean  that  I 
have  everything  so  nice?" 

"Your  things,  miss — your  jacket  and  your  frock,  and  all 
them  things.  And  you  live  in  such  a  fine  house,  and  has 
servants  to  do  for  you  and  all.  O  my!  wouldn't  I  change  with 
you.    Nothing  would  never  be  too  bad  for  me  if  I  was  you,  miss." 

"I  dare  say  you  think  so,"  said  Judy  importantly,  "but 
that  just  shows  that  you  don't  know  better.  I  can  tell  you  I 
have  a  great,  great  many  troubles  and  things  to  bear  that  you 
have  no  idea  of.  Indeed,  I  dare  say  you  are  far  happier  than 
I.  You  are  not  bothered  about  keeping  your  frocks  clean,  and 
not  getting  your  feet  wet,  and  all  those  horrible  things.     And 


126  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

about  lessons.  I  dare  say  you  have  no  trouble  at  all  about  les- 
sons.    You  don't  go  to  school,  do  you?" 

"Not  now,  miss.  It's  more  than  six  months  since  I've  been. 
Mother's  wanted  me  so  badly  to  mind  baby.  Father  did  say  as 
perhaps  I  should  go  again  for  a  bit  come  Christmas,"  answered 
the  little  girl,  who  was  growing  quite  at  ease  with  Judy. 

"And  do  you  like  going?"  said  Judy. 

"Pretty  well,  but  it's  a  long  walk — winter  time  'specially," 
said  the  child!  "not  but  what  most  things  is  hard  then  to  them  as 
lives  in  places  like  ours.  'Tisn't  like  for  you,  miss,  with  lots 
of  fires,  and  no  need  for  to  go  out  if  it's  cold  or  wet." 

"Indeed  I  have  to  go  out  very  often — indeed,  always  almost 
when  I  don't  want,"  retorted  Judy.  "Not  that  I  should  mind  the 
walk  to  school.  I  should  like  it;  it  would  be  far  nicer  than  horrid 
lessons  at  home,  cooped  up  in  the  same  room  all  the  time,  with 
no  change.  You  don't  understand  a  bit;  I  am  quite  sure  you 
haven't  as  many  troubles  as  I." 

The  little  girl  smiled,  but  hardly  seemed  convinced.  "Seems 
to  me,  miss,  as  if  you  couldn't  hardly  know,  unless  you  tried, 
what  things  is  like  in  places  like  ours,"  she  said. 

But  before  Judy  could  reply,  a  voice  from  inside  the  cottage 
called  out,  "Betsy,  my  girl,  what  are  you  about  so  long? 
Father'll  be  in  directly,  and  there's  the  tea  to  see  to." 

The  voice  was  far  from  unkind,  but  its  effect  on  Betsy  was 
instantaneous. 

"I  must  go,  miss,"  she  said;  "mother's  calling;"  and  off 
she  ran. 

"How  nice  and  funny  it  must  be  to  set  the  tea  for  her 
father,"  thought  Judy,  as  she  walked  on.  "I  should  like  that 
sort  of  work.  What  a  silly  girl  she  is  not  to  see  how  much  fewer 
troubles  she  has  than  I.     I  only  wish " 

"What  did  you  say  you  wished?"  interrupted  a  voice  that 
seemed  to  come  out  of  the  hedge,  so  suddenly  did  its  owner 
appear  before  Judy. 


TOO  BAD  127 

"I  didn't  say  I  wished  anything — at  least  I  didn't  know  I 
was  speaking  aloud,"  said  the  little  girl,  as  soon  as  she  found 
voice  to  reply. 

The  person  who  had  spoken  to  her  was  a  little  old  woman, 
with  a  scarlet  cloak  that  nearly  covered  her.  She  had  a  basket 
on  her  arm,  and  looked  as  if  she  was  returning  from  market. 
There  was  nothing  very  remarkable  about  her,  and  yet  Judy 
felt  startled  and  a  little  frightened,  she  did  not  quite  know 
why. 

"I  didn't  know  I  was  speaking  aloud,"  she  repeated,  staring 
half  timidly  at  the  old  woman. 

"Didn't  you?"  she  replied.  "Well,  now  I  think  of  it,  I 
don't  remember  saying  that  you  did.  There's  more  kinds  of 
speaking  than  with  tongue  and  words.  What  should  you  say 
if  I  were  to  tell  you  what  it  was  you  were  wishing  just  now?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Judy,  growing  more  alarmed.  "I 
think,  please,  I  had  better  run  on.  Nurse  will  be  wondering 
where  I  am." 

"You  didn't  think  of  that  when  you  were  standing  chat- 
tering to  little  Betsy  just  now,"  said  the  old  woman. 

"Did  you  hear  us?"  asked  Judy,  her  astonishment  almost 
overcoming  her  alarm.  "Where  were  you  standing?  I  didn't 
see  you." 

"I  dare  say  not.  There's  many  things  besides  what  you 
see,  my  dear.  For  instance,  you  don't  see  why  Betsy  should 
think  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  to  be  you,  and  perhaps  Betsy 
doesn't  see  why  you  should  think  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  to 
be  in  her  place  instead  of  in  your  own." 

Judy's  eyes  opened  wider  and  wider.  "Did  you  hear  all 
that?"  she  exclaimed. 

The  old  woman  smiled. 

'So  you  really  would  like  to  be  Betsy  for  a  change?"  she  said. 

"Not  exactly  for  a  change,"  answered  Judy.  "It  isn't  that 
I    am    tired   of   being   myself,    but   I    am   sure   no   other   little 


128  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

girl  in  the  world  has  so  many  troubles;  that  is  why  I  would 
rather  be  Betsy.  You  have  no  idea  what  troubles  I  have,"  she 
went  on,  "and  I  can  never  do  anything  I  like.  It's  always  'Miss 
Judy,  you  must,'  or  'Miss  Judy,  you  mustn't,'  all  day  long. 
And  if  ever  I  am  merry  for  a  little,  then  nurse  tells  me  I  shall 
wake  baby.     O!  he  is  such  a  cross  baby!" 

"And  do  you  think  Betsy's  baby  brothers  and  sisters  are 
never  cross?"  inquired  the  old  woman. 

"O  no,  I  dare  say  they  are;  but  then  she's  allowed  to  scold 
and  punish  them,  and  I  may  never  say  anything,  however  tire- 
some the  little  ones  are.  If  I  might  put  baby  in  the  corner 
when  he  is  naughty,  I  would  soon  cure  him.  But  I  may  never 
do  anything  I  want;  it's  too  bad." 

"Poor  thing,  poor  thing!  it  is  too  bad,  a  great  deal  too 
bad.    I  do  feel  for  you,"  said  the  old  woman. 

But  when  Judy  looked  up  there  was  a  queer  twinkle  in  her 
eyes,  which  made  her  by  no  means  sure  whether  she  was  laughing 
at  her  or  not.  The  little  girl  felt  more  than  half  inclined  to  be 
affronted,  but  before  she  had  time  to  decide  the  point,  the  old 
woman  interrupted  her. 

"Look  here,  my  dear,"  she  said,  lifting  up  the  lid  of  the 
basket  on  her  arm;  "to  show  you  that  I  am  in  earnest,  see  what 
I  will  do  for  you.  Here  is  a  nice  rosy-cheeked  apple;  put  it 
into  your  pocket,  and  don't  let  any  one  see  it,  and  when  you  are 
in  bed  at  night,  if  you  are  still  of  the  same  mind  about  being 
Betsy  instead  of  yourself,  just  take  a  bite  of  the  apple,  then 
turn  round  and  go  to  sleep,  and  in  the  morning  you  shall  see 
what  you  shall  see." 

Half  hesitatingly,  Judy  put  out  her  hand  for  the  apple. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  she  said,  "but" 

"But  what?"  said  the  old  woman  rather  sharply. 

"Must  I  always  be  Betsy,  if  I  try  being  her?" 

"Bless  the  child,  Avhat  will  she  have?"  exclaimed  the  old 
woman.     "No,  you  needn't  go  on  being  Betsy  if  you  don't  want. 


TOO  BAD  129 

Keep  the  apple,  take  care  you  don't  lose  it,  and  when  you've  had 
enough  of  a  change,  take  another  bite.  But  after  that,  remember 
the  apple  can  do  no  more  for  you." 

"I  dare  say  I  shall  not  want  it  to  do  anything  for  me  once 
I  have  left  off  being  myself,"  said  Judy.  "Oh,  how  nice  it  will 
be  not  to  have  nurse  ordering  me  about  all  day  long,  and  not 
to  be  bothered  about  keeping  my  frock  clean,  and  to  have  no 
lessons !" 

"I'm  glad  you're  pleased,"  said  the  old  woman.  "Now,  good- 
bye; you  won't  see  me  again  till  you  want  me." 

"Good-bye,  and  thank" — "thank  you  very  much,"  she  was 
going  to  have  said,  holding  out  her  hand  as  she  spoke — for  re- 
member she  was  not  a  rude  or  ill-mannered  little  girl  by  any 
means — but,  lo  and  behold,  there  was  nobody  there!  The  old 
woman  had  disappeared!  Judy  rubbed  her  eyes,  and  stared 
about  her  in  every  direction,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen — 
nothing,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  least  like  an  old  woman,  only 
some  birds  hopping  about  quite  unconcernedly,  and  a  tiny  field- 
mouse,  who  peeped  up  at  Judy  for  an  instant  with  its  bright 
little  eyes,  and  then  scurried  off  to  its  hole. 

It  was  growing  late  and  dusk,  the  mists  were  creeping  up 
from  the  not  far  distant  sea,  and  the  hills  were  thinking  of  put- 
ting on  their  night-caps,  and  retiring  from  view.  Judy  felt  a 
little  strange  and  "eerie,"  as  she  stood  there  alone  in  the  lane. 
She  could  almost  have  fancied  she  had  been  dreaming,  but  there 
was  the  rosy-cheeked  apple  in  her  hand,  proof  positive  to  the 
contrary.  So  Judy  decided  that  the  best  thing  she  could  do 
was  to  run  home  as  fast  as  she  could,  and  consider  at  her  leisure 
if  she  should  make  use  of  the  little  old  woman's  gift. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  she  reached  the  garden  gate — at 
least  the  trees  on  each  side  of  the  carriage-drive  made  it  seem  so. 
Judy  had  never  been  out  so  late  alone  before,  and  she  felt  rather 
frightened  as  to  what  nurse  would  say.  The  side  door  Avas  open, 
so  she  ran  in,  and  went  straight  up  to  the  nursery.    Just  as  she 


130  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

got  upstairs  she  met  nurse,  her  shawl  and  bonnet  on,  her  kind 
old  face  looking  hot  and  anxious.  At  sight  of  the  truant  she 
stopped  short. 

"So  there  you  are,  Miss  Judy,"  she  exclaimed;  "and  a  nice 
fright  you've  given  me.  It's  my  turn  to  speak  about  'too  bad' 
now,  I  think.  It  really  was  too  bad  of  you  to  stay  behind  like 
that,  and  me  never  thinking  but  what  you  were  close  behind  till 
this  moment;  at  least,  that  you  had  come  in  close  behind,  and 
had  stayed  down  in  the  drawing-room  for  a  little.  You've  fright- 
ened me  out  of  my  wits,  you  naughty  child;  and  if  only  your 
mamma  was  at  home,  I  would  go  straight  downstairs,  and  tell 
her  it's  more  than  I  can  put  up  with." 

"It's  more  than  I  can  put  up  with  to  be  scolded  so  for 
nothing,"  said  Judy  crossly,  and  Avith  a  tone  in  her  voice  new 
to  her,  and  which  rather  took  nurse  aback.  She  had  not  meant 
to  be  harsh  to  the  child,  but  she  had  been  really  frightened,  and, 
as  is  often  the  case,  on  finding  there  had  been  no  cause  for  her 
alarm,  a  feeling  of  provocation  took  its  place. 

"You  should  not  speak  so,  Miss  Judy,"  she  said  quietly,  for 
she  was  wise  enough  not  to  wish  to  irritate  the  little  girl,  whom 
she  truly  loved,  further. 

But  Judy  was  not  to  be  so  easily  pacified. 

"It's  too  bad,"  she  began  as  usual;  "it's  a  great  deal  too 
bad,  that  I  should  never  be  allowed  to  do  the  least  thing  I  want; 
to  be  scolded  so  for  nothing  at  all — just  staying  out  for  two  or 
three  minutes;"  and  she  "banged  about"  the  nursery,  dragging 
her  hat  off,  and  kicking  her  boots  into  the  corner  in  an  extremely 
indignant  manner. 

Nurse  felt  much  distressed.  To  Judy's  grumbling  she  was 
accustomed,  but  this  was  worse  than  grumbling.  "What  can 
have  come  over  the  child?"  she  said  to  herself,  but  to  Judy  she 
thought  it  best  to  say  nothing  at  all.  All  through  tea  Judy 
looked  far  from  amiable;  she  hardly  spoke,  though  a  faint  "Too 
bad"  was  now  and  then  heard  from  her  direction.     Poor  nurse 


TOO  BAD  131 

had  not  a  very  pleasant  time  of  it,  for  the  "cross"  infection  spread, 
as,  alas!  it  is  too  apt  to  do,  and  little  Lena,  Judy's  four-years- 
old  sister,  grew  peevish  and  discontented,  and  pinched  Master 
Baby,  in  return  for  which  he,  as  was  to  be  expected,  set  up  a 
dismal  howl. 

"Naughty,  horrid  little  things!"  said  Judy.  "If  I  had  my 
way  with  them,  they  should  both  be  whipped  and  put  to  bed." 

"Hush,  Miss  Judy!"  said  nurse.  "If  you  would  be  pleasant 
and  help  to  amuse  them,  they  would  not  be  so  cross." 

"I've  something  else  to  do  than  to  amuse  such  ill-natured 
little  things,"  said  Judy. 

"Well,  I  should  think  it  was  time  you  learnt  your  lessons  for 
to-morrow,"  said  nurse.  "We've  had  tea  so  late,  it  will  soon  be 
time  for  you  to  be  dressed  to  go  down  to  the  drawing-room  to 
your  papa.    There  are  some  gentlemen  dining  with  him  to-night." 

"I  can't  bear  going  down  when  mamma's  away,"  said  Judy. 
"It's  too  bad  of  her  to  go  away  and  leave  us." 

"For  shame,  Miss  Judy,  to  speak  so,  when  you  know  that 
it's  only  because  your  poor  aunt  is  so  ill  that  your  mamma  had  to 
go  away.  Now  get  your  books,  there's  a  good  girl,  and  do  your 
lessons." 

"I'm  not  going  to  do  them,"  said  Judy,  with  sudden  resolu- 
tion. "I  needn't  unless  I  like.  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  do  any 
more.  It's  too  bad  I  should  never  have  a  minute  of  time  to 
myself." 

Nurse  really  began  to  think  the  little  girl  must  be  going  to 
be  ill.  Never,  in  all  her  experience  of  her,  had  she  known  her  so 
cross.  It  was  the  same  all  the  evening.  Judy  grumbled  and 
stormed  at  everything;  she  would  not  stand  still  to  have  her  hair 
brushed,  or  her  pretty  white  muslin  frock  fastened;  and  when 
she  came  upstairs  she  was  more  ill  pleased  than  before,  because, 
just  as  she  was  beginning  to  amuse  herself  with  some  pictures, 
her  papa  told  her  he  thought  it  was  time  for  little  girls  to  be  in 
bed.     How  often,  while  she  was  being  undressed,  she  declared 


132  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

that  something  or  other  was  "too  bad,"  I  really  could  not  under- 
take to  say.  She  grumbled  at  her  nice  warm  bath,  she  grumbled 
at  her  hair  being  combed  out,  she  grumbled  at  having  to  go  to 
bed  when  she  wasn't  "the  least  bit  sleepy,"  she  grumbled  at  every- 
thing and  everybody,  herself  included,  for  she  came  to  the  resolu- 
tion that  she  really  would  not  be  herself  any  longer!  No  sooner 
had  nurse  and  the  candle  left  the  room  than  Judy  drew  out  the 
apple,  which,  while  nurse  was  not  looking,  she  had  managed  to 
hide  under  her  pillow,  took  a  good  big  bite  of  it,  turned  round 
on  her  side,  and  notwithstanding  that  her  little  heart  was  beating 
much  faster  than  usual,  half  with  excitement,  half  with  fear,  at 
what  she  had  done,  in  two  minutes  she  was  sound  asleep. 


Chaptee  II. 

"Betsy,  Betsy  girl,  it's  time  you  were  stirring.  Up  with 
you,  child;  you  must  look  sharp." 

What  voice  was  that?  Who  could  it  be,  shouting  so  loudly, 
and  waking  her  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night?  Judy  for  a  moment 
felt  very  indignant,  but  she  was  extremely  sleepy,  and  deter- 
mined to  think  she  was  dreaming;  so  she  turned  round,  and  was 
just  dozing  off,  when  again  she  heard  the  cry: 

"Betsy,  Betsy,  wake  up  with  thee.  Whatever's  come  to  the 
child  this  morning?" 

The  voice  seemed  to  come  nearer  and  nearer,  and  at  last  a 
thump  on  the  wall,  close  to  Judy"s  head,  it  seemed  to  her,  fairly 
startled  her  awake. 

"Up  with  thee,  child,"  sounded  close  to  her  ear;  "Baby's 
been  that  cross  all  night  I've  had  scarce  a  wink  o'  sleep.  Thee 
mustn't  lie  snoring  there." 

Suddenly  all  returned  to  Judy's  memory.  She  was  not  her- 
self; she  was  Betsy. 


TOO  BAD  133 

"I'm  coming,"  she  called  out,  hardly  knowing  what  she  was 
saying;  and  then  the  person  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall  seemed 
to  be  satisfied,  for  Judy  now  heard  her  walking  about,  clattering 
fire-irons  and  pots  and  pans,  evidently  employed  in  tidying  the 
kitchen. 

It  was  still  what  Judy  thought  quite  dark.  She  had  some 
idea  of  calling  for  a  lig'ht,  but  whom  to  call  to  she  did  not  know. 
So.  feeling  very  strange  and  rather  frightened,  she  got  timidly 
out  of  bed,  and  by  the  little  light  that  came  in  at  the  small  square 
window,  began  to  look  about  her.  What  a  queer  little  place  it 
was!  Not  a  room  really,  only  a  sort  of  "lean-to"  at  one  side 
of  the  kitchen,  barely  large  enough  for  the  narrow,  rickety  little 
bedstead,  and  one  old  chair  that  stood  beside  it,  answering  sev- 
eral purpose  besides  its  proper  one,  for  on  it  was  placed  a  cracked 
basin  and  jug,  and  a  tiny  bit  of  looking  glass,  with  a  frame,  fast- 
ened by  a  piece  of  string  to  the  only  remaining  bar.  Betsy's 
clothes  lay  in  the  bed,  which  was  but  poorly  provided  with  proper 
blankets — the  sheets  were  clean — everything  in  the  place  was  as 
clean  as  poverty  can  be,  and  indeed  Betsy  was,  and  considered 
herself  to  be,  a  very  fortunate  little  girl  for  having  a  "room"  of 
her  own  at  all;  but  to  Judy,  Judy  who  had  had  no  training  like 
Betsy's,  Judy  who  found  every  crumple  in  a  rose-leaf  "too  bad," 
Judy  who  knew  as  little  of  other  people's  lives  and  other  peoples 
troubles  as  the  man  in  the  moon, — you  can  fancy,  my  dears,  how 
the  room  of  which  little  Betsy  was  so  proud  looked  to  Judy!  But 
she  had  a  spirit  of  her  own,  ready  though  she  was  to  grumble. 
With  a  little  shiver,  she  began  to  try  to  dress  herself  in  the  well- 
mended  clothes,  so  different  from  her  own  daintily-trimmed  little 
garments — for  washing  she  felt  to  be  out  of  the  question;  it  was 
really  too  cold,  and  besides  there  were  no  soap,  or  sponges,  or 
towels  to  be  seen. 

"I  don't  care,"  she  said  to  herself  stoutly,  as  she  wriggled 
first  into  one  garment  and  then  into  another.  "I  don't  care.  Anyway 
I  shall  have  no  lessons  to  learn,  and  I  shall  not  be  bothered  about 


134  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

keeping  my  frock  clean.  But  I  do  wish  the  fairy  had  left  me  my 
own  hair,"  she  went  on  regretfully,  examining  the  thick  dark 
locks  that  hung  round  her  face,  and  kept  tumbling  into  her  eyes, 
"my  hair  is  much  nicer.  I  don't  believe  Betsy  ever  has  hers  prop- 
erly brushed,  it  is  so  tuggy.  And  what  brown  hands  I've  got, 
and  such  crooked  nails.  I  wonder  if  Betsy's  mother  will  cut  them 
for  me ;  I  wonder  if" 

She  was  interrupted  by  another  summons. 

"Betsy,  girl,  what  are  you  after  this  morning?  I  be  getting 
downright  cross  with  you,  child.  There's  father'll  be  back  for 
breakfast  directly,  and  you  not  helped  me  a  hand's  turn  this  blessed 
morning." 

Judy  started.  She  only  stopped  to  fasten  the  last  button  of 
her  little  dark  cotton  frock,  and  calling  out,  "I'm  coming,"  opened 
the  rough  door  of  the  little  bedroom,  and  found  herself  in  the 
kitchen.  There  sat  Betsy's  mother,  with  the  baby  on  her  knee, 
and  the  baby  but  one  tumbling  about  at  her  feet,  while  she  vainly 
tried  to  fasten  the  frock  of  another  little  fellow  of  three,  who 
sturdily  refused  to  stand  still. 

"You  must  finish  dressing  Jock,"  she  said,  on  catching  sight 
of  Judy;  "Jock's  a  naughty  boy,  won't  stand  still  for  mammy  to 
dress  him;  naughty  Jock,"  she  continued,  giving  him  a  little  shake 
as  she  got  up,  Avhich  sent  him  howling  across  the  room  to  Judy. 
"It's  too  bad  of  you,  Betsy,  to  be  so  lazy  this  morning,  and  me  so 
tired  with  no  sleep,  and  the  little  ones  all  crying;  if  I  tell  father 
he'll  be  for  giving  it  thee,  lass,  to  make  thee  stir  about  a  bit 
quicker." 

"He'll  give  me  what?"  said  Judy,  perplexed.  "I  don't  under- 
stand." 

"Hold  thy  tongue;  I'll  have  none  of  that  answering  back, 
child,"  said  Betsy's  mother,  tired  and  out  of  patience,  poor 
woman,  though  you  must  not  think  she  was  either  harsh  or  un- 
kind, for  she  was  a  very  kind,  good  mother. 

"Jock,  let  me  dress  you,"  said  Judy,  turning  to  the  little 


TOO  BAD  135 

boy,  with  a  vague  idea  that  it  would  be  rather  amusing  to  act 
nurse  to  him.  Jock  came  towards  her  willingly  enough,  but 
Judy  found  the  business  less  easy  than  she  had  expected.  There 
was  a  button  missing  on  his  little  petticoat,  which  she  did  not 
find  out  in  time  to  prevent  her  fastening  it  all  crooked;  and  when 
she  tried  to  undo  it  again,  Jock's  patience  was  exhausted,  and 
he  went  careering  round  the  kitchen,  Judy  after  him,  till  the 
mother  in  despair  caught  hold  of  him,  and  completed  the  task. 

"Your  fingers  seem  to  be  all  thumbs  this  morning,"  she  said 
testily.  "You've  not  swep'  up  a  bit,  nor  made  th'  fire,  nor 
nothing.  Go  and  fetch  water  now  to  fill  th'  kettle,  or  father'll  be 
in  afore  it's  on  the  boil." 

Judy  turned  to  the  fireplace,  and,  with  some  difficulty,  man- 
aged to  lug  the  heavy  old  kettle  as  far  as  the  front  door.  Just 
outside  stood  the  pump,  but  try  as  she  might  she  could  not  get  the 
water  to  flow.  She  was  ready  to  cry  with  vexation,  pumping  had 
always  seemed  such  nice  easy  woTk;  she  had  often  watched  the 
children  of  these  very  cottages  filling  their  kettles  and  jugs,  and 
had  envied  them  the  fun ;  but  now  when  she  had  it  to  do  she  found 
it  very  different — very  poor  fun,  if  indeed  fun  at  all!  At  last 
she  got  the  water  to  begin  to  come,  a  poor  miserable  little  trickle; 
at  this  rate  the  kettle  would  never  be  filled,  and  her  tears  were  pre- 
paring to  descend,  when  a  rough  hearty  voice  made  her  jump. 
It  was  Betsy's  father. 

"Pump's  stiff  this  morning,  is  it,  my  lass?"  he  called  out  as 
he  came  up  the  path.  "Let's  have  a  hand  at  it;"  and  with  his 
vigorous  pull  the  water  quickly  appeared.  He  lifted  the  kettle 
into  the  kitchen,  greatly  to  Judy's  relief;  but  Betsy's  mother  took 
a  different  view  of  the  matter. 

"I  don't  know  what's  come  to  Betsy  this  morning,"  she  said. 
"Lazy's  no  word  for  her.  The  porridge  is  ready,  but  there'll  be 
no  time  to  make  thee  a  cup  of  coffee,  father.  She's  been  close 
upon  a  quarter  of  an  hour  filling  the  kettle,  and  baby's  so  cross 
this  morning  I  can't  put  her  down." 


136  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"I  must  make  my  breakfast  of  porridge  then,"  said  the 
father;  "but  Betsy,  girl,  it's  new  for  thee  to  be  lazy,  my  lass." 

Judy  felt  humbled  and  mortified,  but  she  said  nothing. 
Somehow  she  felt  as  if  she  could  not  defend  herself,  though  she 
knew  she  had  honestly  done  her  best.  The  words  "too  bad"  rose 
to  her  lips,  but  she  did  not  utter  them.  She  began  to  wonder  how 
little  Betsy  managed  to  get  through  her  daily  tasks,  easy  as  she 
had  imagined  them  to  be. 

The  porridge  was  not  much  to  her  taste,  but  she  tried  to  eat 
it.  Perhaps  it  was  not  so  much  the  porridge  itself,  for  it  was 
good  of  its  kind,  which  took  away  her  appetite,  as  the  want  of 
the  many  little  things  to  which  she  was  so  accustomed  that  their 
absence  made  her  for  the  first  time  think  of  them  at  all.  The 
nice  white  table-cloth  and  silver  spoons  on  the  nursery  table,  the 
neat,  pretty  room,  and  freshly  dressed  little  brothers  and  sis- 
ters— all  were  very  different  from  the  rough  board,  and  the  pew- 
ter spoons,  and  Betsy's  father  and  big  brothers  hurriedly  devour- 
ing the  great  bowls  of  porridge,  while  the  three  little  ones  cried 
or  quarrelled  incessantly.  "After  all,"  thought  Judy,  "perhaps  it 
is  a  good  thing  to  have  rather  a  strict  nurse,  even  if  she  is  very 
fussy  about  being  neat  and  all  that." 

But  yet  she  felt  very  sorry  for  Betsy's  mother,  when  she 
looked  at  her  thin,  careworn  face,  and  noticed  how  patient  she 
was  with  the  babies,  and  how  cheerfully  she  answered  all  "father's" 
remarks.  And  there  began  to  dawn  in  the  little  girl's  mind  a 
faint  idea  that  perhaps  there  were  troubles  and  difficulties  in  the 
world  such  as  she  had  never  dreamt  of,  that  there  are  a  good  many 
"too  bads"  in  other  people's  lots  as  well  as  in  Miss  Judy's. 

Breakfast  over,  her  troubles  began  again.  It  was  washing- 
day,  and  just  as  she  was  looking  forward  to  a  ramble  in  the  fields 
in  glorious  independence  of  nurse's  warnings  about  spoiling  her 
frock,  her  dreams  were  put  an  end  to  by  Betsy's  mother's  sum- 
moning her  to  take  her  place  at  the  tub.  And  oh,  my  dears, 
real  washing  is  very  different  work  from  the  dolls'  laundressing — 


TOO  BAD  137 

standing  round  a  wash-hand  basin  placed  on  a  nursery  chair,  and 
wasting  ever  so  much  beautiful  honey-soap  in  nice  clean  hot 
water,  and  then  when  the  little  fat  hands  are  all  "crumply"  and 
puffy  "like  real  washerwomen's,"  rinsing  out  the  miniature  gar- 
ments in  still  nicer  clean  cold  water,  and  hanging  them  round  the 
nursery  guard  to  dry,  and  most  likely  ending  up  by  coaxing  nurse 
to  clear  away  all  the  mess  you  have  made,  and  to  promise  to  let 
you  iron  dolly's  clean  clothes  the  next  wet  afternoon — which 
you  think  so  delightful.  Judy's  arms  ached  sorely,  sorely,  and 
her  head  ached  too,  and  she  felt  all  steamy  and  hot  and  weary, 
when  at  last  her  share  of  it  was  over,  and,  "for  a  change,"  she 
was  instructed  to  take  the  two  youngest  out  for  a  walk  up  the 
lane,  while  mother  boiled  the  potatoes  for  dinner. 

The  babies  were  very  tiresome,  and  though  Judy  was  quite 
at  liberty  to  manage  them  in  her  own  way,  and  to  punish  them 
as  she  had  never  ventured  to  punish  Lena  and  Harry  at  home, 
she  did  not  find  it  of  much  use.  She  wondered  "how  ever  the 
real  Betsy  did;"  and  I  fancy  the  babies  too  wondered  a  good 
deal  in  their  own  way  as  to  what  had  come  over  their  big  sister 
to-day.  Altogether  the  walk  was  very  far  from  a  pleasure  to  any 
of  the  three,  and  when  at  last  Judy  managed  to  drag  her  weary 
self,  and  her  two  hot,  cross  little  charges  home  again  to  the 
cottage,  she  was  by  no  means  in  an  amiable  humour.  She  would 
have  liked  to  sit  down  and  rest,  and  she  would  have  liked  to 
wash  her  face  and  hands,  and  brush  her  hair — Judy  who  at  home 
always  grumbled  at  nurse's  summons  to  "come  and  be  tidied" — 
but  there  was  no  time  for  anything  of  the  kind.  Dinner — the 
potatoes,  that  is  to  say — was  ready,  and  the  table  must  be  set 
at  once,  ready  for  father  and  the  boys,  and  Betsy's  mother  told 
her  to  "look  sharp  and  bustle  about,"  in  a  way  that  Judy  felt 
to  be  really  a  great  deal  "too  bad."  She  was  hungry,  however, 
and  ate  her  share  of  potatoes,  flavoured  with  a  little  dripping  and 
salt,  with  more  appetite  than  she  had  sometimes  felt  for  roast 
mutton  and  rice  pudding,  though  all  the  same  she  would  have  been 


138  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

exceedingly  glad  of  a  little  gravy,  or  even  a  plateful  of  sago  pud- 
ding, which  generally  was  by  no  means  a  favorite  dish  of  hers. 

"Me  and  the  boys  won't  be  home  till  late,"  said  the  father, 
as  he  rose  to  go;  "there's  a  piece  o'  work  master  wants  done  this 
week,  and  he'll  pay  us  extra  to  stay  a  couple  of  hours.  Betsy 
must  bring  us  our  tea." 

Judy's  spirits  rose.  She  would  have  a  walk  by  herself 
anyway,  unplagued  by  babies,  and  the  idea  of  it  gave  her  some 
patience  for  the  afternoon's  task  of  darning  stockings,  which 
she  found  was  expected  of  her.  Just  at  first  the  darning  was 
rather  amusing,  but  after  a  while  she  began  to  be  sadly  tired  of  it. 
It  was  very  different  from  sitting  still  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
with  nurse  patiently  instructing  her,  and  praising  her  whenever 
she  did  well;  these  stockings  were  so  very  harsh  and  coarse,  and 
the  holes  were  so  enormous,  and  the  basketful  so  huge! 

"I'll  never  get  them  done,"  she  exclaimed  at  last.  "I  think 
it's  too  bad  to  make  a  little  girl  like  me  or  Betsy  do  such  hard 
work;  and  I  think  her  father  and  brothers  must  make  holes  in 
their  horrid  stockings  on  purpose,  I  do.     I'll  not  do  any  more." 

She  shoved  the  basket  into  a  corner,  and  looked  about  for 
amusement.  The  babies  were  asleep,  and  Jock  was  playing  in  a 
corner,  and  mother,  poor  body,  was  still  busy  in  the  wash-house 
— Judy  could  find  nothing  to  play  with.  There  were  no  books 
in  the  cottage,  except  an  old  Farmers'  Almanac,  a  Bible  and 
Prayer-Book,  and  one  or  two  numbers  of  a  People's  Miscellany, 
which  Judy  looked  into,  but  found  she  could  not  understand. 
How  she  wished  for  some  of  her  books  at  home!  Even  those  she 
had  read  two  or  three  times  through,  and  was  always  grumbling 
at  in  consequence,  would  have  been  a  great  treasure;  even  a 
history  or  geography  book  would  have  been  better  than  nothing. 

Suddenly  the  clock  struck,  and  Betsy's  mother  called  out 
from  the  wash-house, 

"It's  three  o'clock — time  for  you  to  be  going  with  the  tea. 
Set  the  kettle  on,   Betsy,   and  I'll  come  and  make  it  and  cut 


TOO  BAD  139 

the  bread.  It'll  take  you  more  nor  half-an-hour  to  walk  to  Farmer 
Maxwell's  where  they're  working  this  week." 

Judy  was  staring  out  of  the  window.  "It's  beginning  to 
rain,"  she  said  dolefully. 

"Well,  what  if  it  is,"  replied  Betsy's  mother,  "Father 
and  boys  can't  want  their  tea  because  it's  raining.  Get  thy  old 
cloak,  child.  My  goodness  me!"  she  went  on,  as  she  came  into 
the  kitchen,  "she  hasn't  got  the  kettle  on  yet?  Betsy,  it's 
too  bad  of  thee,  it  is  for  sure;  there's  not  a  thing  but  Avhat's 
been  Avrong  to-day." 

Judy's  conscience  pricked  her  about  the  stockings,  so,  without 
attempting  to  defend  herself,  she  fetched  the  old  cloak  she  had 
seen  hanging  in  Betsy's  room,  and,  drawing  the  hood  over  her 
head,  stood  meekly  waiting,  while  the  mother  cut  the  great  hunches 
of  bread,  made  the  tea,  and  poured  it  into  the  two  tin  cans, 
which  the  little  girl  was  to  carry  to  the  farm. 

It  did  not  rain  much  when  she  first  set  off,  so  though  it  was 
a  good  two  miles'  walk,  she  was  only  moderately  wet  when  she 
got  to  the  farm.  One  of  the  boys  was  on  the  look-out  for  her, 
or  rather  for  their  tea,  which  he  at  once  took  possession  of  and 
ran  off  with,  advising  Judy  to  make  haste  home,  it  was  going 
to  rain  like  blazes.  But  poor  Judy  found  it  no  easy  matter  to 
follow  his  counsel;  her  arms  were  still  aching  with  the  weight 
of  the  baby  in  the  morning,  and  her  wrist  was  chafed  with  the 
handle  of  one  of  the  tin  pails,  which  she  could  not  manage  other- 
wise to  carry,  the  old  cloak  was  poor  protection  against  the  driving 
rain,  and,  Avorst  of  all,  Betsy's  old  boots  had  several  holes  in 
them,  and  a  sharp  stone  had  made  its  way  through  the  sole  of 
the  left  one,  cutting  and  hurting  her  foot.  She  stumbled  along 
for  some  way,  feeling  very  miserable,  till  at  last,  quite  unable  to  go 
farther,  she  sat  down  under  the  hedge,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"So  you  haven't  found  things  quite  so  pleasant  as  you  ex- 
pected, eh,  Miss  Judy?  You  don't  find  walking  in  Betsy's  shoes 
quite  such  an  easy  matter  after  all?"  said  a  voice  at  her  side; 


140  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

and,  looking  up,  lo  and  behold!  there,  standing  before  her,  Judy 
saw  the  old  woman  with  the  scarlet  cloak. 

"I  don't  think  it  is  kind  of  you  to  laugh  at  me,"  she  sobbed. 

"It's  'too  bad,'  is  it,  eh,  Miss  Judy?" 

Judy  sobbed  more  vigorously,  but  did  not  answer. 

"Come,  now,"  said  the  old  woman  kindly.  "Let's  talk  it  over 
quietly.  Are  you  beginning  to  understand  that  other  people's 
lives  have  troubles  and  difficulties  as  well  as  yours — that  little 
Betsy,  for  instance,  might  find  things  'too  bad'  a  good  many 
times  in  the  course  of  the  day,  if  she  was  so  inclined?" 

"Yes,"  said  Judy  humbly. 

"And  on  the  whole,"  continued  the  fairy,  "you  would  rather 
be  yourself  than  any  one  else — eh,  Miss  Judy?" 

"Oh  yes,  yes,  a  great  deal  rather,"  said  Judy  eagerly. 
"Mayn't  I  be  myself  again  now  this  very  minute,  and  go  home 
to  tea  in  the  nursery?  Oh,  I  would  so  like!  It  seems  ever  so 
long  since  I  saw  Lena  and  Harry  and  nurse,  and  you  said  yes- 
terday I  needn't  keep  on  being  Betsy  if  I  didn't  like." 

"Not  quite  so  fast,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  woman.  "It's  only 
four  o'clock ;  you  must  finish  the  day's  work.  Go  back  to  the  cot- 
tage and  wait  patiently  till  bedtime,  and  then — you  know  what  to 
do — you  haven't  lost  your  apple?" 

"No,"  said  Judy,  feeling  in  her  pocket.     "I  have  it  safe." 

"That's  all  right.  Now  jump  up  my  dear,  and  hasten  home, 
or  Betsy's  mother  will  be  wondering  what  has  become  of  you." 

Judy  got  up  slowly.  "I'm  so  wet,"  she  said,  "and  oh!  my 
foot's  so  sore.     These  horrible  boots!     I  think  it's  too " 

"Hush!"  said  the  fairy.  "How  would  you  like  me  to  make 
you  stay  as  you  are,  till  you  quite  leave  off  that  habit  of  grumbling. 
I'm  not  sure  but  what  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  her,"  she 
added,  consideringly,  as  if  thinking  aloud. 

"O  no,  please  don't,"  said  Judy,  "please,  please  don't.  I 
do  beg  your  pardon;  I  didn't  mean  to  say  it,  and  I  won't  say  it 
any  more." 


TOO  BAD  141 

"Then  off  with  you;  your  foot  won't  be  so  bad  as  you  think," 
said  the  fairy. 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Judy,  fancying  already  that  it  hurt  her 
less.     She  had  turned  to  go  when  she  stopped. 

"Well,"  said  the  old  woman,  "what's  the  matter  now?" 

"Nothing,"  answered  Judy,  "but  only  I  was  thinking,  if  I 
am  myself  again  to-morrow  morning,  and  Betsy's  herself,  what 
will  they  all  think,  nurse  and  all,  I  mean?  and  if  I  try  to  explain, 
I'm  sure  they'll  never  believe  me — they'll  say  I'm  talking  non- 
sense. Nurse  always  says  'rubbish'  if  we  make  up  fairy  stories, 
or  anything  like  that." 

The  old  woman  smiled  curiously. 

"Many  wiser  people  than  nurse  think  that  'rubbish'  settles 
whatever  they  don't  understand,"  she  said.  "But  never  you  mind, 
Judy.  You  needn't  trouble  your  head  about  what  any  one  will 
think.  No  one  ever  will  be  the  wiser  but  you  and  I.  When 
Betsy  wakes  in  her  own  little  bed  in  the  morning,  she  will  only 
think  she  has  had  a  curious  dream — a  dream,  perhaps,  which  will 
do  her  no  harm — and  nurse  will  think  nothing  but  that  Miss  Judy 
has  been  cured  of  grumbling  in  a  wonderful  way.  For  if  you're 
not  cured  it  will  be  my  turn  to  say  it's  too  bad! — will  it  not?" 

"Yes,"  said  Judy,  laughing.  "Thank  you  so  much,  kind  fairy. 
Won't  you  come  and  see  me  again  some  time?" 

But  the  last  words  were  spoken  to  the  air,  for  while  Judy 
was  uttering  them  the  old  woman  had  disappeared,  and  only 
the  little  field  mouse  again,  ivith  bright  sparkling  eyes,  ran  across 
the  path,  looking  up  fearlessly  at  Judy  as  it  passed  her. 

And  Judy  never  did  see  the  old  woman  again. 

She  went  back  to  the  cottage,  bearing  bravely  the  pain  of 
her  wounded  foot,  which  was  not  so  very  bad  after  all,  and  the 
discomfort  of  her  wet  clothes. 

And  though  Betsy's  mother  scolded  her  for  having  been  so 
slow  about  her  errand,  she  did  not  grumble  or  complain,  but  did 
her  best  to  help  the  poor  woman  with  the  evening's  work.     All 


142  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

the  same,  I  can  tell  you,  she  was  very  glad  to  get  to  bed  at  night, 
and  you  may  be  sure  she  did  not  forget  to  take  a  great  big 
bite  of  her  apple. 

"When  I  am  myself  again,  I'll  spend  the  six  shillings  I  have 
in  my  money-box  to  buy  Betsy  a  nice  new  print  frock  instead  of 
that  ugly  old  one  that  got  so  soaked  to-day,"  was  her  last  thought 
before  she  fell  asleep. 

And  oh!  my  dears,  can  you  imagine  how  delightful  it  was 
to  find  herself  in  the  morning,  her  real  own  self  again?  She  felt 
it  was  almost  too  good  to  be  true.  And,  since  then,  it  has  been 
seldom,  if  ever,  that  Miss  Judy  has  been  heard  to  grumble,  or 
that  anything  has  been  declared  to  be  "too  bad." 


"CARROTS:" 

JUST  A  LITTLE  BOY 

CHAPTER    I 

floss's  baby 

Where  did  you  come  from,  Baby  dear? 
Out  of  the  everywhere  into  the  here? 

******* 

But  how  did  you  come  to  us,  you  dear? 
God  thought  about  you,    and  so  I  am  here ! 

G.  Macdonald. 

His  real  name  was  Fabian.  But  he  was  never  called  any- 
thing but  Carrots.  There  were  six  of  them.  Jack,  Cecil,  Louise, 
Maurice,  commonly  called  Mott,  Floss,  dear,  dear  Floss,  whom 
he  loved  best  of  all,  a  long  way  the  best  of  all,  and  lastly  Carrots. 

Why  Carrots  should  have  come  to  have  his  history  written 
I  really  cannot  say.  I  must  leave  you,  who  understand  such 
things  a  good  deal  better  than  I,  you,  children,  for  whom  the 
history  is  written,  to  find  out.  I  can  give  you  a  few  reasons  why 
Carrot's  history  should  not  have  been  written,  but  that  is  about 
all  I  can  do.  There  was  nothing  very  remarkable  about  him; 
there  was  nothing  very  remarkable  about  the  place  where  he  lived, 
or  the  things  that  he  did,  and  on  the  whole  he  was  very  much 
like  other  little  boys.  There  are  my  no  reasons  for  you.  But 
still  he  was  Carrots,  and  after  all,  perhaps,  that  was  the  reason! 
I  shouldn't  wonder. 

He  was  the  baby  of  the  family ;  he  had  every  right  to  be  con- 
sidered the  baby,  for  he  was  not  only  the  youngest,  but  very 
much  the  youngest;  for  Floss,  who  came  next  to  him,  was  nearly 
four  years  older  than  Carrots.  Yet  he  was  never  treated  as  the 
baby.  I  doubt  if  even  at  the  very  outset  of  his  little  life,  when 
he  was  just  a  wee  pink  ball  of  a  creature,  rolled  up  in  flannel, 

143 


144  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

and  with  his  funn3r  curls  of  red  hair  standing  crisp  up  all  over 
his  head,  I  doubt,  if  even  then,  he  was  ever  called  "baby."  I 
feel  almost  sure  it  was  always  "Carrots."  He  was  too  independent 
and  sensible  to  be  counted  a  baby,  and  he  was  never  fond  of  being 
petted — and  then,  too,  "Carrots"  came  so  naturally! 

I  have  said  that  Carrots  loved  his  sister  Floss  better  than 
anybody  or  anything  else  in  the  world.  I  think  one  reason  of  this 
was  that  she  was  the  very  first  person  he  could  remember  in  his 
life,  and  a  happy  thing  for  him  that  it  was  so,  for  all  about  her 
that  there  was  to  remember  was  nice  and  good  and  kind.  She  was 
four  years  older  than  he,  four  years  old,  that  is  to  say,  when  he 
first  came  into  the  world  and  looked  about  him  with  grave  inquiry 
as  to  what  sort  of  a  place  this  could  be  that  he  had  got  to.  And 
the  first  object  that  his  baby-wise  eyes  settled  upon  with  content, 
as  if  in  it  there  might  be  a  possible  answer  to  the  riddle,  was 
Floss ! 

These  children's  father  and  mother  were  not  very  rich,  and 
having  six  boys  and  girls  you  can  quite  easily  imagine  they  had 
plenty  to  do  with  their  money.  Jack  was  a  great  boy  at  school 
when  Carrots  first  joined  the  family  party,  and  Cecil  and  Louise 
had  a  governess.  Mott  learnt  with  the  governess  too,  but  was 
always  talking  of  the  time  when  he  should  go  to  school  with 
Jack,  for  he  was  a  A^ery  boy-ey  boy,  very  much  inclined  to  look 
down  upon  girls  in  general,  and  his  sisters  in  particular,  and  his 
little  sister  Floss  in  'particular est.  So,  till  Carrots  appeared  on 
the  scene,  Floss  had  had  rather  a  lonely  time  of  it,  for,  "of  course," 
Cecil  and  Louise,  who  had  pockets  in  all  their  frocks,  and  could 
play  the  "March  of  the  Men  of  Harlech"  as  a  duet  on  the  piano, 
were  far  too  big  to  be  "friends  to  Floss,"  as  she  called  it.  They 
were  friendly  and  kind  in  an  elder  sisterly  way,  but  that  was 
quite  a  different  sort  of  thing  from  being  "friends  to  her,"  though 
it  never  occurred  to  Floss  to  grumble  or  to  think,  as  so  many 
little  people  think  now-a-days,  how  much  better  things  would  have 
been  arranged  if  she  had  had  the  arranging  of  them. 


"CARROTS"  145 

There  was  only  one  thing  Floss  wished  for  very,  very  much, 
and  that  was  to  have  a  brother  or  sister,  she  did  not  much  care 
which,  younger  than  herself.  She  had  the  most  motherly  heart 
in  the  world,  though  she  was  such  a  quiet  little  girl  that  very  few 
people  knew  anything  about  what  she  was  thinking,  and  the  big 
ones  laughed  at  her  for  being  so  outrageously  fond  of  dolls.  She 
had  dolls  of  every  kind  and  size,  only  alike  in  one  thing,  that  none 
of  them  were  very  pretty,  or  what  you  would  consider  grand  dolls. 
But  to  Floss  they  were  lovely,  only,  they  were  only  dolls! 

Can  you  fancy,  can  you  in  the  least  fancy,  Floss's  delight — 
a  sort  of  delight  that  made  her  feel  as  if  she  couldn't  speak,  when 
one  winter's  morning  she  was  awakened  by  nurse  to  be  told  that 
a  real  live  baby  had  come  in  the  night — a  little  brother,  and 
"such  a  funny  little  fellow,"  added  nurse,  "his  head  just  covered 
with  curly  red  hair.  Where  did  he  get  that  from,  I  wonder?  Not 
one  of  my  children  has  hair  like  that,  though  yours,  Miss  Flossie, 
has  a  touch  of  it,  perhaps." 

Floss  looked  at  her  own  tangle  of  fluffy  hair  with  new  rev- 
erence. "Hair  somesing  like  my  hairs,"  she  whispered.  "Oh, 
nursie,  dear  nursie,  may  Floss  see  him?" 

"Get  up  and  let  me  dress  you  quickly,  and  you  shall  see  him 
— no  fear  but  that  you'll  see  more  of  the  poor  little  fellow  than 
you  care  about,"  said  nurse,  though  the  last  words  were  hardly 
meant  for  Floss. 

The  truth  was  that  though  of  course  every  one  meant  to  be 
kind  to  this  new  little  baby,  to  take  proper  care  of  him,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  no  one  "was  particularly  glad  he  had  come. 
His  father  and  mother  felt  that  five  boys  and  girls  were  already 
a  good  number  to  bring  up  well  and  educate  and  start  in  life, 
not  being  very  rich  you  see,  and  even  nurse,  who  had  the  very 
kindest  heart  in  the  world,  and  had  taken  care  of  them  all,  begin- 
ning with  Jack,  ever  since  they  were  born,  even  nurse  felt,  I 
think,  that  they  could  have  done  without  this  red-haired  little 
stranger.     For  nurse  was  no  longer  as  young  as  she  had  been, 


146  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

and  as  the  children's  mother  could  not,  she  knew,  very  well  afford 
to  keep  an  under-nurse  to  help  her,  it  was  rather  trying  to  look 
forward  to  beginning  again  with  all  the  "worrit"  of  a  new  baby — 
bad  nights  and  many  tiring  climbs  up  the  long  stairs  to  the  nur- 
sery, etc.,  etc.,  though  nurse  was  so  really  good  that  she  did  not 
grumble  the  least  bit,  and  just  quietly  made  up  her  mind  to  make 
the  best  of  it. 

But  still  Floss  was  the  only  person  to  give  the  baby  a  really 
hearty  welcome.  And  by  some  strange  sort  of  baby  instinct  he 
seemed  to  know  it  almost  from  the  first.  He  screamed  at  Jack, 
and  no  wonder,  for  Jack,  by  way  of  salutation,  pinched  his  poor 
little  nose,  and  said  that  the  next  time  they  had  boiled  mutton  for 
dinner,  cook  need  not  provide  anything  but  turnips,  as  there  was 
a  fine  crop  of  carrots  all  ready,  which  piece  of  wit  was  greatly 
applauded  by  Maurice  and  the  girls.  He  wailed  when  Cecil  and 
Louise  begged  to  be  allowed  to  hold  him  in  their  arms,  so  that 
they  both  tumbled  him  back  on  to  nurse's  lap  in  a  hurry,  and 
called  him  "a  cross,  ugly  little  thing."  Only  when  little  Floss 
sat  down  on  the  floor,  spreading  out  her  knees  with  great  solemnity, 
and  smoothing  her  pinafore  to  make  a  nice  place  for  baby,  and 
nurse  laid  him  carefully  down  in  the  embrace  of  her  tiny  arms, 
"baby"  seemed  quite  content.  Pie  gave  a  sort  of  wriggle,  like  a 
dog  when  he  has  been  pretending  to  burrow  a  hole  for  himself  in 
the  rug,  just  before  he  settles  down  and  shuts  his  eyes,  and  in 
half  a  second  was  fast  asleep. 

"Baby  loves  Floss,"  said  Floss  gravely,  and  as  long  as  nurse 
would  let  her,  till  her  arms  really  ached,  there  she  sat  on  the  floor, 
as  still  as  a  mouse,  holding  her  precious  burden. 

It  was  wonderful  how  trusty  she  was.  And  "as  handy," 
said  nurse,  "indeed  far  more  handy  than  many  a  girl  of  five  times 
her  age."  "I  have  been  thinking,"  she  said,  one  day  to  Floss's 
mother,  "I  have  been  thinking,  ma'am,  that  even  if  you  had  been 
going  to  keep  an  under-nurse  to  help  with  baby,  there  would  have 
been  nothing  for  her  to  do.    For  the  help  I  get  from  Miss  Flossie 


"CARROTS"  147 

is  really  astonishing,  and  Master  Baby  is  that  fond  of  her  already, 
you'd  hardly  believe  it." 

And  Floss's  mother  kissed  her,  and  told  her  she  was  a  good 
little  soul,  and  Floss  felt,  oh,  so  proud!  Then  a  second  thought 
struck  her,  "Baby  dood  too,  mamma,"  she  said,  staring  up  into 
her  mother's  face  with  her  bright,  searching,  gray-green  eyes. 

"Yes,"  said  her  mother  with  a  little  sigh,  "poor  baby  is  good 
too,  dear,"  and  then  she  had  to  hurry  off  to  a  great  overhauling 
of  Jack's  shirts,  which  were,  if  possible,  to  be  made  to  last  him 
another  half-year  at  school. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  a  great  deal  of  Floss's  life  was  spent 
in  the  nursery  with  Carrots.  He  was  better  than  tAventy  dolls, 
for  after  a  while  he  actually  learnt,  first  to  stand  alone,  and  then 
to  walk,  and  after  a  longer  while  he  learnt  to  talk,  and  to  under- 
stand all  that  Floss  said  to  him,  and  by  and  by  to  play  games 
with  her  in  his  baby  way.  And  how  patient  Floss  was  with  him ! 
It  was  no  wonder  he  loved  her. 

This  chapter  has  seemed  almost  more  about  Floss  than  Car- 
rots you  will  say,  perhaps,  but  I  couldn't  tell  you  anything  of 
Carrots'  history  without  telling  you  a  great  deal  about  Floss  too, 
so  I  dare  say  you  Avon't  mind.  I  dare  say  too  you  will  not  care 
to  hear  much  more  about  Carrots  when  he  was  a  baby,  for,  after 
all,  babies  are  all  very  like  each  other,  and  a  baby  that  wasn't  like 
others  would  not  be  a  baby!  To  Floss  I  fancy  he  seemed  a  re- 
markable baby,  but  that  may  have  been  because  he  was  her  very 
own,  and  the  only  baby  she  had  ever  known.  He  was  certainly 
very  good,  in  so  far  as  he  gave  nurse  exceedingly  little  trouble, 
but  why  children  should  give  trouble  when  they  are  perfectly  well, 
and  have  everything  they  can  possibly  want,  I  have  never  been 
able  to  decide.  On  the  whole,  I  think  it  must  have  something  to 
do  with  the  people  who  take  care  of  them,  as  well  as  with  them- 
selves. 

Now  we  will  say  good-by  to  Carrots,  as  a  baby. 


148  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

CHAPTER    II 

SIX   YEARS   OLD 

"As  for  me,  I  love  the  sea, 
The  dear  old  sea  ! 

Don't  you?" 

Song. 

I  think  I  said  there  was  nothing  very  remarkable  about  the 
place  where  Carrots  lived,  but  considering  it  over,  I  am  not  quite 
sure  that  you  would  agree  with  me.  It  was  near  the  sea  for  one 
thing,  and  that  is  always  remarkable,  is  it  not?  How  remarkable, 
how  wonderful  and  changeful  the  sea  is,  I  doubt  if  any  one  can 
tell  who  has  not  really  lived  by  it,  not  merely  visited  it  for  a  few 
weeks  in  the  fine  summer  time,  when  it  looks  so  bright  and  sunny 
and  inviting,  but  lived  by  it  through  autumn  and  winter  too, 
through  days  when  it  looks  so  dull  and  leaden,  that  one  can 
hardly  believe  it  will  ever  be  smiling  and  playful  again,  through 
fierce,  rough  days,  When  it  lashes  itself  with  fury,  and  the  wind 
wails  as  if  it  were  trying  to  tell  the  reason. 

Carrots'  nursery  window  looked  straight  out  upon  the  sea, 
and  many  and  many  an  hour  Floss  and  he  spent  at  this  window, 
watching  their  strange  fickle  neighbour  at  his  gambols.  I  do  not 
know  that  they  thought  the  sea  at  all  wonderful.  I  think  they 
were  too  much  accustomed  to  it  for  that,  but  they  certainly  found 
it  very  interesting.  Floss  had  names  for  the  different  kinds  of 
waves;  some  she  called  "ribs  of  beef,"  when  they  showed  up  side- 
ways in  layers  as  it  were,  of  white  and  brown,  and  some  she 
called  "ponies."  That  was  the  kind  that  came  prancing  in,  with 
a  sort  of  dance,  the  white  foam  curling  and  rearing,  and  tossing 
itself,  just  exactly  like  a  frisky  pony's  mane.  Those  were  the 
prettiest  waves  of  all,  I  think. 

It  was  not  at  all  a  dangerous  coast,  where  the  Cove  House, 
that  was  Carrots'  home,  stood.  It  was  not  what  is  called  "pic- 
turesque."    It  was  a  long  flat  stretch  of  sandy  shore,  going  on 


"CARROTS"  149 

and  on  for  miles  just  the  same.  There  were  very  few  trees  and 
no  mountains,  not  even  hills. 

In  summer,  a  few,  just  a  very  few  visitors  used  to  come  to 
Sandyshore  for  bathing;  there  were  always  visitors  with  children, 
for  every  one  said  it  was  such  a  nice  safe  place  for  the  little 
people. 

But,  safe  as  it  was,  it  wasn't  till  Carrots  was  growing  quite 
a  big  boy,  nearly  six,  I  should  think,  that  Floss  and  he  got  leave 
to  go  out  and  play  on  the  shore  by  themselves,  the  thing  they  had 
been  longing  for  ever  since  they  could  remember. 

This  was  how  they  did  get  leave  at  last.  Nurse  was  very, 
Aery  busy,  one  day ;  really  quite  extra  busy,  for  she  was  arranging 
and  helping  to  pack  Jack's  things  to  go  to  a  new  school.  Jack 
was  so  big  noAv,  about  sixteen,  that  he  was  going  to  a  kind  of 
college,  or  grown-up  school,  the  last  he  would  go  to  before 
entering  the  army.  And  there  was  quite  a  fuss  in  the  house. 
Jack  thought  himself  almost  as  grand  as  if  he  was  an  officer 
already,  and  Mott  was  overpowered  with  envy.  Everybody  was 
fussing  about  Jack,  and  no  one  had  much  time  to  think  of  the 
two  little  ones. 

They  stood  at  the  nursery  window,  poor  little  souls,  when 
Floss  came  up  from  her  lessons,  gazing  out  wistfully.  It  was  a 
nice  spring  day,  not  exactly  sunny,  but  looking  as  if  the  sun  were 
only  hiding  himself  to  tease  you,  and  might  come  out  any  minute. 

"If  we  might  go  down  to  the  shore,"  said  Floss,  half  to 
herself,  half  to  Carrots,  and  half  to  nurse.  I  shouldn't  have 
said  it  so,  for  there  can't  be  three  halves  of  anything,  but  no  doubt 
you  will  understand. 

"Go  down  to  the  shore,  my  dear?"  repeated  nurse,  "I  wish 
you  could,  I'm  sure,  but  it  will  be  afternoon,  at  least,  before  I 
have  a  minute  to  spare  to  take  you.  And  there's  no  one  else 
to-day,  for  cook  and  Esther  are  both  as  busy  as  busy.  Perhaps 
Miss  Cecil  and  Miss  Louise  will  take  you  when  they  have  done 
their  lessons." 


150  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"We  don't  care  to  go  with  them,  much,"  said  Floss,  "they 
don't  understand  our  plays.  We  like  hest  to  go  with  you,  nursie, 
and  you  to  sit  down  with  your  sewing  near — that's  the  nicest 
way.  Oh,  nurse,"  she  exclaimed  with  sudden  eagerness,  "wouldn't 
you  let  us  go  alone?  You  can  peep  out  of  the  window  and  see 
us  every  few  minutes,  and  we'll  he  so  good." 

Nurse  looked  out  of  the  window  doubtfully. 

"Couldn't  you  play  in  the  garden  at  the  back,  instead?" 
she  said.  "Your  papa  and  mamma  won't  be  home  till  late,  and 
I  am  always  in  a  terror  of  any  harm  happening  while  they  are 
away." 

"We  won't  let  any  harm  happen,"  said  Floss,  "and  we  are  so 
tired  of  the  garden,  nurse.  There  is  nothing  to  play  at  there. 
The  little  waves  are  so  pretty  this  morning." 

There  was  certainly  very  little  to  play  at  in  the  green,  at 
the  back  of  the  house,  which  was  called  the  garden.  Being  so 
near  the  sea,  the  soil  was  so  poor  that  hardly  any  flowers  would 
grow,  and  even  the  grass  was  coarse  and  lumpy.  Then  there 
were  no  trees,  and  what  is  a  garden  without  trees? 

Nurse  looked  out  of  the  window  again. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "if  you  will  really  be  very  good,  I  think 
I  might  trust  you.  Now,  Master  Carrots,  you  will  promise  to 
do  exactly  what  Miss  Floss  tells  you?" 

"Yes,  I  promise,"  said  Carrots,  who  had  been  listening  with 
great  anxiety,  though  he  had  not  hitherto  spoken — he  was  not  a 
great  talker — "I  promise,  nurse.  I  will  do  exactly  what  Floss 
tells  me,  and  Floss  will  do  exactly  what  I  tell  her,  won't  you, 
Floss?     So  we  shall  both  be  kite  good,  that  way,  won't  we?" 

"Very  well,"  said  nurse  gravely,  though  she  felt  very  much 
inclined  to  laugh,  "then  run  and  get  your  things  as  fast  as  you 
can." 

And,  oh,  how  happy  the  two  were  when  they  found  them- 
selves out  on  the  shore  all  alone!  They  Avere  so  happy,  they  did 
not  know   what  to   do;   so  first   of  all,   they   ran  races   to   run 


"CARROTS"  151 

away  a  little  of  the  happiness.  And  when  they  had  run  them- 
selves quite  hot,  they  sat  down  on  a  little  heap  of  stones  to  con- 
sider what  they  should  do  next.  They  had  no  spades  with  them, 
for  they  did  not  care  very  much  about  digging;  children  who 
live  always  by  the  sea  never  care  so  much  about  digging  as  the 
little  visitors  who  come  down  in  the  summer,  and  whose  very 
first  idea  at  the  sight  of  the  sea  is  "spades  and  buckets." 

"What  shall  we  play  at  Carrots?"  said  Floss.  "I  wish  it 
was  warm  enough  to  paddle." 

Carrots  looked  at  the  little  soft  rippling  waves,  contem- 
platively. 

"When  I'm  a  man,"  he  said,  "I  shall  paddle  always.  I 
shall  paddle  in  winter  too.  When  I'm  a  man  I  won't  have 
no  nurse." 

"Carrots,"  said  Floss,  reproachfully,  "that  isn't  good  of  you. 
Think  how  kind  nurse  is." 

"Well,  then,"  replied  Carrots,  slowly,  "I  will  have  her,  but 
she  must  let  me  paddle  always,  when  I'm  a  man." 

"When  you  are  a  man,  Carrots,"  said  Floss,  solemnly  still, 
"I  hope  you  will  have  something  better  to  do  than  paddling. 
Perhaps  you'll  be  a  soldier,  like  Jack." 

"Killing  people  isn't  better  than  paddling,"  retorted  Carrots. 
"I'd  rather  be  a  sailor,  like  papa." 

"Sailors  have  to  kill  people,  too,  sometimes,"  said  Floss. 

"Have  they?"  said  Carrots.  Then  he  sat  silent  for  a  few 
minutes,  finding  this  new  idea  rather  overwhelming.  "Naughty 
people,  do  you  mean,  Floss?"  he  inquired  at  last. 

"Yes,"  said  Floss,  unhesitatingly,  "naughty  people  of  course." 

"But  I  don't  like  killing,"  said  Carrots,  "not  killing  naughty 
people,  I  don't  like.  I  won't  be  a  soldier,  and  I  won't  be  a 
sailor,  and  I  won't  be  a  butcher,  'cos  butchers  kill  lambs.  Per- 
haps I'll  be  a  fisherman." 

"But  fishermen  kill  fish,"  said  Floss. 


152  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"Do  they?"  said  Carrots,  looking  up  in  her  face  pathetically 
with  his  gentle  brown  eyes.  "I'm  so  sorry.  I  don't  understand 
about  killing,  Floss.     I  don't  like  it." 

"I  don't  either,"  said  Floss ;  "but  perhaps  it  has  to  be.  If  there 
was  no  killing  we'd  have  nothing  to  eat." 

"Eggs,"  said  Carrots;  "eggs  and  potatoes,  and — and — cake?" 

"But  even  that  would  be  a  sort  of  killing,"  persisted  Floss, 
though  feeling  by  no  means  sure  that  she  was  not  getting  beyond 
her  depth.  "If  we  didn't  eat  eggs  they  would  grow  into  chickens, 
and  so  eating  stops  them;  and  potatoes  have  roots,  and  when 
they're  pulled  up  they  don't  grow;  and  cake  has  eggs  in,  and — 
oh,  I  don't  know,  let's  talk  of  something  else." 

"What?"  said  Carrots.    "Fairies?" 

"If  you  like,  or  supposing  we  talk  about  when  auntie  comes 
and  brings  Sybil." 

"Yes,"  said  Carrots,  "I  like  that  best." 

"Well,  then,"  began  Floss,  "supposing  it  is  late  in  the  evening 
when  they  come.    You  would  be  in  bed,  Carrots,  dear,  but  I  would 

have  begged  to  sit  up  a  little  longer  and " 

"No,  Floss,  that  isn't  nice.  I  won't  talk  about  Sybil,  if  you 
make  it  like  that,"  interrupted  Carrots,  his  voice  sounding  as  if 
he  were  going  to  cry.  "Sybil  isn't  not  any  bigger  than  me.  I 
wouldn't  be  in  bed,  Floss." 

"Very  well,  dear.  Never  mind,  darling.  I  won't  make  it 
like  that.  It  was  very  stupid  of  me.  No,  Sybil  and  auntie  will 
come  just  about  our  tea-time,  and  we  shall  be  peeping  along  the 
road  to  see  if  the  carriage  from  the  station  is  coming,  and  when 
we  hear  it  we'll  run  in,  and  perhaps  mamma  will  say  we  may 
stay  in  the  drawing-room  to  see  them.  You  will  have  one  of  your 
new  sailor  suits  on,  Carrots,  and  I  shall  have  my  white  pique 
and  blue  sash,  and  nurse  will  have  made  the  nursery  tea-table 
look  so  nice — with  a  clean  table-cloth,  you  know,  and  quite  thin 
bread  and  butter,  and  jam,  and,  perhaps,  eggs." 


"CARROTS"  153 

"I  won't  eat  one,"  interrupted  Carrots;  "I  won't  never 
eat  eggs.  I'll  keep  all  mine  that  I  get  to  eat,  in  a  box,  till  they've 
growed  into  chickens." 

"But  they're  boiled  when  you  get  them,"  said  Floss;  "they 
wouldn't  grow  into  chickens  when  they're  boiled." 

Carrots  sighed.     "Well,  never  mind,"  he  said,  "go  on,  Floss." 

"Well,  then,"  started  Floss  again,  "you  see  the  nursery 
tea  would  look  so  nice  that  Sybil  would  be  sure  to  ask  her  mamma 
to  let  her  have  tea  with  us,  even  though  it  was  the  first  evening. 
Perhaps,  you  know,  she  would  be  rather  shy,  just  at  first,  till 
she  got  to  know  us.  So  we  would  be  very,  very  kind  to  her,  and 
after  tea  we  would  show  her  all  our  things — the  dolls,  only — 
Carrots,  I'm  afraid  the  dolls  are  getting  rather  old." 

"Are  they?"  said  Carrots,  sympathisingly.  "When  I'm  a 
man  I'll  buy  you  such  a  lot  of  new  dolls,  Floss,  and  Sybil,  too, 
if  she  likes  dolls — does  she,  Floss?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  should  think  so,"  said  Floss.  "When 
papa  and  mamma  went  to  see  auntie,  they  said  Sybil  was  like  a 
doll  herself.  I  suppose  she  has  beautiful  blue  eyes  and  long  gold 
curls.    That  was  a  year  ago;  she  must  be  bigger  now.     Carrots!" 

"What?" 

"We  must  get  up  and  run  about  a  little  now.  It's  too  cold 
to  sit  still  so  long,  and  if  we  get  cold,  nurse  won't  let  us  come  out 
alone  again." 

Up  jumped  Carrots  on  to  his  sturdy  little  legs.  "I'll  run, 
Floss,"  he  said. 

"Floss,"  he  began,  when  they  stopped  to  take  breath  again, 
"once  I  saw  a  little  boy  with  a  hoop.  It  went  so  nice  on  the 
sands.    I  wish  I  had  a  hoop,  Floss." 

"I  wish  you  had,  dear,"  said  Floss.  "I'd  buy  you  one,  if  I 
had  any  money.  But  I  haven't,  and  we  couldn't  ask  mamma, 
because  I  know,"  and  Floss  shook  her  head  mysteriously,  "I  know 
poor  mamma  hasn't  any  money  to  spare.  I  must  think  of  a  plan 
to  get  some." 


154  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

Carrots  kept  silence  for  about  three-quarters  of  a  minute. 
"Have  you  thinkened,  Floss?"  he  asked,  eagerly. 

"Thought,"  gravely  said  Floss,  "not  thinkened.    What  about?" 

"About  a  plan,"  replied  Carrots.  He  called  it  "a  pan,"  but 
Floss  understood  him. 

"Oh,  dear,  no,"  said  Floss,  "not  yet.  Plans  take  a  great  lot 
of  thinking.  They're  real  things,  you  see,  Carrots,  not  like  fancies 
about  fairies  and  Sybil  coming." 

"But  when  Sybil  does  come,  that'll  be  real  then,"  said  Carrots. 

"Of  course,"  agreed  Floss,  "but  fancying  about  it  before,  isn't 
real." 

It  took  Carrots  a  little  while  to  get  this  into  his  head.  Then 
he  began  again. 

"When  will  you  have  thinkened  enough,  Floss?  By  tea- 
time?" 

"I  don't  know.  No,  I  think  you  had  better  wait  till  to- 
morrow morning,  and  then  perhaps  the  plan  will  be  ready." 

"Very  well,"  said  Carrots,  adding,  with  a  little  sigh,  "to- 
morrow morning  is  a  long  time,  Floss." 

"Not  very,"  said  Floss,  consolingly.  "Now  Carrots,  let's 
have  one  more  race,  and  then  we  must  go  in." 


CHAPTER   III 

PLANS 

"  'Have  you  invented  a  plan  for  it  ?'  Alice  inquired. 
'Not  yet,'  said  the  knight." 

Through  the  Looking  Glass. 

The  next  morning  Carrots  woke  very  early,  and  the  first 
thing  he  thought  of  was  the  plan.  Floss  and  he  slept  in  the  night 
nursery,  in  two  little  beds,  and  nurse  slept  in  a  small  room  that 
had  a  door  opening  into  the  nursery.  She  used  to  sleep  in  the 
nursery  herself,  but  now  that  Carrots  was  so  big,  Floss  and  he  were 


"CARROTS"  155 

quite  safe  by  themselves,  and  poor  old  nurse  enjoyed  having  her 
own  little  room. 

Floss  was  still  asleep,  so  Carrots  only  climbed  out  of  his 
own  cot  into  hers,  and  crouched  himself  down  at  the  foot,  watch- 
ing for  her  to  wake.  Floss  looked  very  nice  asleep;  her  "fuzzy" 
hair  was  tumbling  over  the  pillow,  and  her  cheeks  looked  pinker 
than  when  she  was  awake. 

"I  wonder  what  being  asleep  is,"  thought  the  little  boy  as 
he  looked  at  her.  "I  always  go  away,  such  a  long  way,  when  I 
am  asleep.     I  wonder  if  Floss  does." 

She  couldn't  have  been  very  far  away  just  then,  for  some- 
how, though  Carrots  sat  so  still,  she  seemed  to  know  he  was  there. 
She  turned  round  and  half  opened  her  eyes,  then  shut  them  as 
if  she  were  trying  to  go  to  sleep  again,  then  opened  them  once 
more,  quite  wide  this  time,  and  caught  sight  of  the  funny  little 
figure  beside  her. 

"Carrots,"  she  said,  in  a  sleepy  voice,  "Carrots,  dear,  what 
are  you  doing  there?     You'll  catch  cold." 

"No,  I  won't.  May  I  come  in  'aside  you,  Floss?  I  was 
only  watching  for  you  to  wake;  I  didn't  wake  you,  did  I?"  said 
Carrots,  as  Floss  made  room  for  him,  and  he  poked  his  cold  little 
toes  down  into  a  nice  warm  place,  "I  did  so  want  to  know  if  it 
was  ready,  for  it's  to-morrow  morning  now." 

"If  what's  ready?"  said  Floss,  for  she  was  rather  sleepy  still. 

"The  plan  for  getting  money." 

"Oh!"  said  Floss.  "Yes,"  she  went  on  affer  thinking  for  a 
minute,  "yes,  it's  nearly  ready;  at  least  I'm  almost  sure  it  is. 
But  it's  not  quite  ready  for  telling  you,  yet,  Carrots." 

Carrots  looked  terribly  disappointed. 

"I  think,"  went  on  Floss,  "I  think  it  will  be  ready  for  telling 
you  after  breakfast.  And  if  you  like,  you  may  listen  to  something 
I  am  going  to  ask  nurse  at  breakfast,  and,  perhaps,  that  will 
help  you  to  guess  what  the  plan  is." 


156  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

At  breakfast  time  Carrots  was  all  ears.  All  ears  and  no 
tongue,  so  that  nurse  began  to  wonder  if  he  was  ill. 

"I  shouldn't  like  you  to  be  ill  the  very  day  after  Master 
Jack  has  gone,"  she  said  anxiously  (Jack  had  gone  up  to  town 
by  the  night  train  with  his  father),  "one  trouble  at  a  time  is  quite 
enough  for  jrour  poor  mamma." 

"Is  Jack's  going  to  the  big  school  a  trouble?"  asked  Floss, 
opening  her  eyes  very  wide,  "I  thought  they  were  all  very  glad." 

"My  dear,"  said  nurse  solemnly,  "one  may  be  glad  of  a 
thing  and  sorry  too.  And  changes  mostly  are  good  and  bad 
together." 

Floss  did  not  say  any  more,  but  she  seemed  to  be  thinking 
about  what  nurse  had  said.     Carrots  was  thinking  too. 

"When  I'm  a  man,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  won't  go  to  a  big 
school  if  Floss  doesn't  want  me  to." 

Nurse  smiled.  "There's  time  enough  to  see  about  that,"  she 
said,  "get  on  with  your  breakfast,  Master  Carrots;  you'll  never 
grow  a  big  boy  if  you  don't  eat  plenty." 

"Nurse,"  said  Floss,  suddenly,  "what's  the  dearest  thing  we 
eat?    What  costs  most?" 

"Meat,  now-a-days,  Miss  Flossie,"  said  nurse. 

"Could  we  do  without  it?"  asked  Floss.  Nurse  shook  her 
head. 

"What  could  we  Ido  without?"  continued  the  Child.  "We 
couldn't  do  without  bread  or  milk,  I  suppose.  What  could  we 
do  without  that  costs  money?" 

"Most  things  do  that,"  said  nurse,  who  began  to  have  a 
glimmering  of  what  Floss  was  driving  at,  "but  the  money's  well 
spent  in  good  food  to  make  you  strong  and  well." 

"Then  isn't  there  anything  we  could  do  without — without  it 
hurting  us,  I  mean?"  said  Floss,  in  a  tone  of  disappointment. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  nurse,  "I  dare  sa>  l,here  is.  Once  a  little  boy 
and  girl  I  knew  went  without  sugar  in  their  tea  for  a  month, 
and  their  grandmother  gave  them  sixpence  each  instead." 


"CARROTS"  157 

"Sixpence!"  exclaimed  Floss,  her  eyes  gleaming. 

"Sixpence  each,"  corrected  nurse. 

"Two  sixpences,  that  would  he  a  shilling.  Carrots,  do  you 
hear?" 

Carrots  had  been  listening  with  might  and  main,  but  was 
rather  puzzled. 

"Would  two  sixpennies  pay  for  two  hoops?"  he  whispered 
to  Floss,  pulling  her  pinafore  till  she  bent  her  head  down  to 
listen. 

"Of  course  they  Avould.  At  least  I'm  almost  sure.  I'll  ask 
nurse.  Nurse  dear,"  she  went  on  in  a  louder  voice,  "do  you  think 
we  might  do  that  way — Carrots  and  I — about  sugar,  I  mean?" 

"I  don't  see  that  it  would  do  you  any  harm,"  said  nurse. 
"You  must  ask  your  mamma." 

But  Floss  hesitated. 

"I  shouldn't  much  like  to  ask  mamma,"  she  said,  and  Carrots, 
who  was  listening  so  intently  that  he  had  forgotten  all  about  his 
bread  and  milk,  noticed  that  Floss's  face  grew  red.  "I  shouldn't 
much  like  to  ask  mamma,  because,  nursie,  dear,  it  is  only  that 
we  want  to  get  money  for  something  for  ourselves,  and  if  we 
told  mamma,  it  would  be  like  asking  her  to  give  us  the  money. 
It  wouldn't  be  any  harm  for  us  not  to  eat  any  sugar  in  our  tea 
for  a  month,  and  you  could  keep  the  sugar  in  a  packet  all  together, 
nurse,  and  then  you  might  tell  mamma  that  we  had  saved  it,  and 
she  would  give  us  a  shilling  for  it.  It  would  be  quite  worth  a 
shilling,  wouldn't  it,  nurse?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  nurse,  "I  am  sure  your  mamma  would  say 
it  was."  Then  she  considered  a  little.  She  was  one  of  those  truly 
trustworthy  nurses  whose  notions  are  strong  on  the  point  of 
everything  being  told  to  "mamma."  But  she  perfectly  understood 
Floss's  hesitation,  and  though  she  might  not  have  been  able  to 
put  her  feeling  into  words,  she  felt  that  it  might  do  the  child  harm 
to  thwart  her  delicate  instinct. 

"Well,  nurse?"  said  Floss,  at  last. 


158  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"Well,  Miss  Flossie,  I  don't  think  for  once  I  shall  be  doing 
wrong  in  letting  you  have  a  secret.  When  will  you  begin?  This 
is  Thursday;  on  Saturday  your  mamma  will  give  me  the  week's 
sugar suppose  you  begin  on  Sunday?  But  does  Master  Car- 
rots quite  understand?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Floss,  confidently,  "he  understands,  don't 
you,  dear?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Carrots,  "we  won't  eat  not  any  sugar,  Floss 
and  me,  for  a  great  long  time,  and  nurse  will  tie  it  up  in  a  parcel 
with  a  string  round,  and  mamma  will  buy  it  and  give  us  a  great 
lot  of  pennies,  and  then,  and  then"— he  began  to  jump  about 
with  delight — "Floss  and  me  will  go  to  the  toy-shop  and  buy 
our  hoops,  won't  we,  Floss?  Oh,  I  wish  it  was  time  to  go  now, 
don't  you,  Floss?" 

"Yes,  dear,  a  month's  a  good  while  to  wait,"  said  Floss  sym- 
pathisingly.  "May  we  go  out  on  the  shore  again  by  ourselves 
this  afternoon,  nurse?" 

"If  it  doesn't  rain,"  said  nurse;  and  Floss,  who  had  half  an 
hour  to  wait  before  it  was  time  for  her  to  join  her  sisters  in  the 
schoolroom,  went  to  the  window  to  have  a  look  at  the  weather. 
She  had  not  stood  there  for  more  than  a  minute  when  Carrots 
climbed  up  on  to  a  chair  beside  her. 

"It's  going  to  rain,  Floss,"  he  said,  "there  are  the  little  curly 
clouds  in  the  sky  that  Matthew  says  come  when  it  rains." 

Floss  looked  up  at  the  sky  and  down  at  the  sea. 

"The  sea  looks  cross  to-day,"  she  said. 

There  were  no  pretty  ripples  this  morning;  the  water  looked 
dull  and  leaden. 

"Floss,"  said  Carrots,  with  a  sigh,  "I  do  get  so  tired  when 
you  are  at  lessons  all  the  morning  and  I  have  nucken  to  do.  Can't 
you  think  of  a  plan  for  me  to  have  something  to  do?"  Carrots' 
head  was  running  on  "plans." 

Floss  considered. 

"Would  you  like  to  tidy  my  drawer  for  me?"  she  said.    "This 


"CARROTS"  159 

isn't  the  regular  day  for  tidying  it,  but  it  is  in  a  mess,  because 
I  turned  all  the  things  upside  down  when  I  was  looking  for 
our  race  horses'  reins  yesterday.  Will  you  put  it  quite  tidy, 
Carrots?" 

"Oh,  yes,  quite,  dear  Floss,"  said  Carrots,  "I'll  put  all  the 
dolls  neat,  and  all  the  pieces,  and  all  tlhe  sewing  things.  Oh,  dear, 
Floss,  what  nice  plans  you  make." 

So  when  Floss  had  gone  to  her  lessons,  and  nurse  was  busy 
with  her  morning  duties,  in  and  out  of  the  room,  so  as  not  to  lose 
sight  of  Carrots,  but  still  too  busy  to  amuse  him,  he,  with  great 
delight,  set  to  work  at  the  drawer.  It  certainly  was  much  in 
need  of  "tidying,"  and  after  trying  several  ways,  Carrots  found 
that  the  best  plan  was  to  take  everything  out,  and  then  put  the 
different  things  back  again  in  order.  It  took  him  a  good  while, 
and  his  face  got  rather  red  with  stooping  down  to  the  floor  to 
pick  up  all  the  things  he  had  deposited  there,  for  the  drawer 
itself  was  too  heavy  for  him  to  lift  out  bodily,  if,  indeed,  such  an 
idea  had  occurred  to  him.  It  was  the  middle  drawer  of  the 
cupboard,  the  top  part  of  which  was  divided  into  shelves  where 
the  nursery  cups  and  saucers  and  that  sort  of  things  stood.  The 
drawer  above  Floss's  was  nurse's,  where  she  kept  her  work,  and 
a  few  books,  and  a  little  notepaper  and  so  on;  and  the  drawer  at 
the  bottom,  so  that  he  could  easily  reach  it,  was  Carrots'  own. 

One  end  of  Floss's  drawer  was  given  up  to  her  dolls.  She 
still  had  a  good  many,  for  though  she  did  not  care  for  them 
now  as  much  as  she  used,  she  never  could  be  persuaded  to  throw 
any  of  them  away.  But  they  were  not  very  pretty;  even  Carrots 
could  see  that,  and  Carrots,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  very  fond  of 
dolls. 

"If  I  had  some  money,"  he  said  to  himself,  "I  would  buy 
Floss  such  a  most  beautiful  doll.     I  wish  I  had  some  money." 

For  the  moment  he  forgot  about  the  hoops  and  the  "plan" 
and  sat  down  on  a  little  stool  with  one  of  the  unhappiest  looking 
of  the  dolls  in  his  arms. 


160  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"I  wish  I  could  buy  you  a  new  face,  poor  dolly,"  he  said. 
"I  wish  I  had  some  money." 

He  got  up  again  to  put  poor  dolly  back  into  her  corner.  As 
he  was  smoothing  down  the  paper  which  lined  the  drawer,  he  felt 
something  hard  close  to  dolly's  foot;  he  pushed  away  the  dolls 
to  see — there,  almost  hidden  by  a  crumple  in  the  paper  lay  a 
tiny  little  piece  of  money — a  little  shining  piece,  about  the  size 
of  a  sixpence,  only  a  different  colour. 

"A  yellow  sixpenny,  oh,  how  nice!"  thought  Carrots,  as  he 
seized  it.  "I  Avonder  if  Floss  knowed  it  was  there.  It  would 
just  do  to  buy  a  new  doll.  I  wish  I  could  go  to  the  toy-shop  to 
buy  one  to  surprise  Floss.  I  won't  tell  Floss  I've  found  it.  I'll 
keep  it  for  a  secret,  and  some  day  I'll  buy  Floss  a  new  doll.  I'm 
sure  Floss  doesn't  know— I  think  the  fairies  must  have  put  it 
there." 

He  wrapped  the  piece  of  money  up  carefully  in  a  bit  of 
paper,  and  after  considering  where  he  could  best  hide  it,  so  that 
Floss  should  not  know  till  it  was  time  to  surprise  her,  he  fixed 
on  a  beautiful  place — he  hid  it  under  one  of  the  little  round 
saucers  in  his  paint-box — a  very  old  paint-box  it  was,  which  had 
descended  from  Jack,  first  to  Mott  and  then  to  Carrots,  but 
which,  all  the  same,  Carrots  considered  one  of  his  greatest 
treasures. 

When  nurse  came  into  the  room,  she  found  the  tidying  of 
the  drawer  completed,  and  Carrots  sitting  quietly  by  the  window. 
He  did  not  tell  her  about  the  money  he  had  found,  it  never 
entered  into  his  little  head  that  he  should  speak  of  it.  He  had 
got  into  the  way  of  not  telling  all  the  little  things  that  happened 
to  him  to  any  one  but  Floss,  for  he  was  naturally  a  very  quiet 
child,  and  nurse  was  getting  too  old  to  care  about  all  the  tiny 
interests  of  her  children  as  she  once  had  done.  Besides,  he  had 
determined  to  keep  it  a  secret,  even  from  Floss,  till  he  could  buy 
a  new  doll  with  it — but  Arery  likely  he  would  have  told  her  of  it 
after  all,  had  not  something  else  put  it  out  of  his  head. 


"CARROTS"  161 

The  something  else  was  that  that  afternoon  nurse  took  Floss 
and  him  for  a  long  walk,  and  a  walk  they  were  very  fond  of. 

It  was  to  the  cottage  of  the  old  woman,  who,  ever  since  they 
had  come  to  Sandyshore,  had  washed  for  them.  She  was  a  very 
nice  old  woman,  and  her  cottage  was  beautifully  clean,  and  now 
and  then  Floss  and  Carrots  had  gone  with  nurse  to  have  tea  with 
her,  which  was  a  great  treat.  But  to-day  they  were  not  going 
to  tea ;  they  were  only  going  because  nurse  had  to  pay  Mrs.  White 
some  money  for  washing  up  Jack's  things  quickly,  and  nurse 
knew  the  old  woman  would  be  glad  to  have  it,  as  it  was  close 
to  the  day  on  which  she  bad  to  pay  her  rent. 

Floss  and  Carrots  were  delighted  to  go,  for  even  when  they 
did  not  stay  to  tea,  Mrs.  White  always  gave  them  a  glass  of  milk, 
and,  generally,  a  piece  of  home-made  cake. 

Before  they  started,  nurse  went  to  her  drawer  and  took  out 
of  it  a  very  small  packet  done  up  in  white  paper,  and  this  little 
packet  she  put  into  her  purse. 

It  was,  after  all,  a  nice  fine  day.  Floss  and  Carrots  walked 
quietly  beside  nurse  for  a  little,  and  then  sbe  gave  them  leave  to 
run  races,  which  made  the  way  seem  very  short,  till  they  got  to 
Mrs.  White's. 

"How  nice  it  will  be  when  we  have  our  hoops,  won't  it, 
Carrots?"  said  Floss. 

Carrots  had  almost  forgotten  about  the  hoops,  but  now  that 
Floss  mentioned  them,  it  put  him  in  mind  of  something  else. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  a  new  doll,  Floss?"  he  said  mysteriously, 
"a  most  beautifullest  neAV  doll,  with  hair  like — like  the  angels'  hair 
in  the  big  window  at  church,  and  eyes  like  the  little  blue  stones 
in  mamma's  ring?" 

"Of  course  I  would,"  said  Floss,  "and  we'd  call  her  Angelina, 
wouldn't  we,  Carrots?  But  it's  no  good  thinking  about  it — I 
shall  never  have  one  like  that,  unless  the  fairies  send  it  me!" 

"If  the  fairies  sended  you  money  to  buy  one,  wouldn't  that 


162  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

do?"  said  Carrots,  staring  up  in  her  face  with  a  funny  look  in 
his  eyes. 

But  before  Floss  had  time  to  answer,  nurse  called  to  them 
— they  were  at  the  corner  of  the  lane  which  led  to  Mrs.  White's. 

Mrs.  White  was  very  kind.  She  had  baked  a  cake  only  a 
day  or  two  before,  and  cut  off  a  beautiful  big  piece  for  each  of  the 
children,  then  she  gave  them  a  drink  of  milk,  and  they  ran  out 
into  her  little  garden  to  eat  their  cake  and  look  at  the  flowers, 
till  nurse  had  finished  her  business  with  the  old  washerwoman, 
and  was  ready  to  go  home. 

Floss  and  Carrots  thought  a  great  deal  of  Mrs.  White's 
garden.  Small  as  it  was,  it  had  far  more  flowers  in  it  than  their 
own  garden  at  the  back  of  the  Cove  House,  for  it  was  a  mile 
or  two  farther  from  the  sea,  and  the  soil  was  richer,  and  it  was 
more  sheltered  from  the  wind. 

In  summer  there  was  Avhat  Floss  called  quite  a  "buzzy" 
sound  in  this  little  garden — she  meant  that  sweet,  lazy-busy  hum 
of  bees  and  butterflies  and  all  sorts  of  living  creatures,  that  you 
never  hear  except  in  a  real  old-fashioned  garden  where  there 
are  lots  of  clove  pinks  and  sweet  williams  and  roses,  roses  espe- 
cially, great,  big,  cabbage  roses,  and  dear  little  pink  climbing 
roses,  the  kind  that  peep  in  at  a  cottage  window  to  bid  you 
"good-morning."  Oh,  how  very  sweet  those  old-fashioned  flowers 
are — though  "rose  fanciers"  and  all  the  clever  gardeners  we  have 
now-a-days  wouldn't  give  anything  for  them.  I  think  them  the 
sweetest  of  all.  Don't  you,  children?  Or  is  it  only  when  one 
begins  to  grow  old-fashioned  oneself  and  to  care  more  for  things 
that  used  to  be  than  things  that  are  now,  that  one  gets  to  prize 
these  old  friends  so? 

I  am  wandering  away  from  Floss  and  Carrots  waiting  for 
nurse  in  the  cottage  garden;  you  must  forgive  me,  boys  and  girls 
— when  people  begin  to  grow  old  they  get  in  the  habit  of  telling 
stories  in  a  rambling  way,  but  I  don't  find  children  so  hard  upon 
this   tiresome   habit   as   big  people   sometimes   are.     And   it   all 


"CARROTS"  163 

comes  back  to  me  so — even  the  old  washerwoman's  cottage  I 
can  see  so  plainly,  and  the  dear  straggly  little  garden ! 

For  you  see,  children,  I  am  telling  you  the  history  of  a  real 
little  boy  and  girl,  not  fancy  children,  and  that  is  why,  though 
there  is  nothing  very  wonderful  about  Floss  and  Carrots,  I  hope 
the  story  of  their  little  pleasures  and  sorrows  and  simple  lives  may 
be  interesting  to  you. 

But  I  must  finish  about  the  visit  to  the  washerwoman  in 
another  chapter.     I  have  made  this  one  rather  too  long  already. 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE   LOST    HALF-SOVEREIGN 

"Children  should  not  leave  about 
Anything  that's  small  and  bright; 
Lest  the  fairies  spy  it  out, 
And  fly  off  with  it  at  night." 

Poems  written  for  a  Child. 

There  was  no  buzzy  sound  in  Mrs.  White's  garden  this 
afternoon.  It  was  far  too  early  in  the  year  for  that,  indeed  it  was 
beginning  to  feel  quite  chilly  and  cold,  as  the  afternoons  often 
do  of  fine  days  in  early  spring,  and  by  the  time  Floss  and  Carrots 
had  eaten  their  cake,  and  examined  all  the  rose  bushes  to  see  if 
they  could  find  any  buds,  and  wished  it  were  summer,  so  that 
there  would  be  some  strawberries  hiding  under  the  glossy  green 
leaves,  they  began  to  wonder  why  nurse  was  so  long — and  to 
feel  rather  cold  and  tired  of  waiting. 

"Just  run  to  the  door,  Carrots,  dear,"  said  Floss,  "and  peep 
in  to  see  if  nurse  is  coming." 

She  did  not  like  to  go  herself,  for  she  knew  that  nurse  and 
Mrs.  White  were  fond  of  a  comfortable  talk  together  and  might 
not  like  to  be  interrupted  by  her.  But  Carrots  they  would  not 
mind. 


164  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

Carrots  set  off  obediently,  but  before  he  got  to  the  door  he 
met  nurse  coming  out.  She  was  followed  by  Mrs.  White  and 
both  were  talking  rather  earnestly. 

"You'll  let  me  know,  if  so  be  as  you  find  it,  Mrs.  Hooper; 
you  won't  forget?" — Mrs.  White  was  saying — Hooper  was  nurse's 
name — "for  I  feel  quite  oneasy — I  do  that,  for  you." 

"I'll  let  you  know,  and  thank  you,  Mrs.  White,"  said  nurse. 
"I'm  glad  I  happened  to  bring  some  of  my  own  money  with  me 
too,  for  I  should  have  been  sorry  to  put  you  to  any  incon- 
venience by  my  carelessness — though  how  I  could  have  been  so 
careless  as  to  mislay  it,  I'm  sure  it's  more  than  I  can  say." 

"It  is,  indeed,  and  you  so  careful,"  said  Mrs.  White  sym- 
pathisingly. 

Just  then  nurse  caught  sight  of  Carrots. 

"Come  along,  Master  Carrots,"  she  said,  "I  was  just  going  to 
look  for  you.  Wherever's  Miss  Floss?  We  must  be  quick;  it's 
quite  time  we  were  home." 

"I'll  tell  Floss,"  said  Carrots,  disappearing  again  down  the 
path,  and  in  another  moment  Floss  and  he  ran  back  to  nurse. 

Though  they  had  been  very  quick,  nurse  seemed  to  think 
they  had  been  slow.  She  even  scolded  Floss  a  very  little  as  if 
she  had  been  kept  waiting  by  her  and  Carrots,  when  she  was  in 
a  hurry  to  go,  and  both  Floss  and  Carrots  felt  that  this  was  very 
hard  when  the  fact  was  that  they  had  been  waiting  for  nurse  till  they 
were  both  tired  and  cold. 

"It  wasn't  Floss's  fault.  Floss  wanted  you  to  come  quick, 
and  she  sended  me  to  see,"  said  Carrots  indignantly. 

"Hold  your  tongue,   Master   Carrots,"   said   nurse   sharply. 

Carrots'  face  got  very  red,  he  gave  nurse  one  reproachful 
look,  but  did  not  speak.  He  took  Floss's  hand  and  pulled  her 
on  in  front.     But  Floss  would  not  go;  she  drew  her  hand  away. 

"No,  Carrots,  dear,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "it  wouldn't 
be  kind  to  leave  nurse  all  alone  when  she  is  sorry  about  some- 
thing." 


"CARROTS"  165 

"Is  she  sorry  about  somesing?"  said  Carrots. 

"Yes,"  replied  Floss,  "I  am  sure  she  is.  You  run  on  for  a 
minute.     I  want  to  speak  to  nurse." 

Carrots  ran  on  and  Floss  stayed  behind. 

"Nurse,"  she  said  softly,  slipping  her  hand  through  nurse's 
arm,  which,  by  stretching  up  on  tip-toe,  she  was  just  able  to  do, 
"nurse,  dear,  what's  the  matter?" 

"Nothing  much,  Miss  Flossie,"  replied  nurse,  patting  the 
kind  little  hand,  "nothing  much,  but  I'm  growing  an  old  woman 
and  easy  put  out — and  such  a  stupid-like  thing  for  me  to  have 
done!" 

"What  have  you  done?  What  is  stupid?"  inquired  Floss, 
growing  curious  as  well  as  sympathising. 

"I  have  lost  a  half-sovereign — a  ten-shilling  piece  in  gold, 
Miss  Flossie,"  replied  nurse. 

"Out  of  your  pocket — dropped  it,  do  you  mean?"  said  Floss. 

"Oh  no — I  had  it  in  my  purse — at  least  I  thought  I  had," 
said  nurse.  "It  was  a  half-sovereign  of  your  mamma's  that  she 
gave  me  to  pay  Mrs.  White  with  for  Master  Jack's  things  and 
part  of  last  week  that  was  left  over,  and  I  wrapped  it  up  with 
a  shilling  arid  a  sixpence — it  came  to  eleven  and  six,  altogether — 
in  a  piece  of  paper,  and  put  it  in  my  drawer  in  the  nursery, 
and  before  I  came  out  I  put  the  packet  in  my  purse.  And  when 
I  opened  it  at  Mrs.  White's  no  half-sovereign  was  there!  Only 
the  shilling  and  the  sixpence!" 

"You  didn't  drop  it  at  Mrs.  White's,  did  you?  Should  we 
go  back  and  look?"  said  Floss,  standing  still,  as  if  ready  to  run 
off  that  moment. 

"No,  no,  my  dear.  It's  not  at  Mrs.  White's.  She  and  I 
searched  all  over,  and  she's  as  honest  a  body  as  could  be,"  replied 
nurse.  "No,  there's  just  the  chance  of  its  being  in  the  drawer 
at  home.  I  feel  all  in  a  fever  till  I  get  there  to  look.  But  don't 
you  say  anything  about  it,  Miss  Flossie;  it's  my  own  fault,  and 
no  one  must  be  trcaibled  about  it  but  myself." 


166  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"Poor  nursie,"  said  Floss,  "I'm  so  sorry.  But  you're  sure 
to  find  it  in  your  drawer.  Let's  go  home  very  fast.  Carrots," 
she  called  out  to  the  little  figure  obediently  trotting  on  in  front, 
"Carrots,  come  and  walk  with  nursie  and  me  now.  Nurse  isn't 
vexed." 

Carrots  turned  back,  looking  up  wistfully  in  nurse's   face. 

"Poor  darlings,"  said  the  old  woman  to  herself,  "such  a 
shame  of  me  to  have  spoilt  their  walk!" 

And  all  the  way  home,  "to  make  up,"  she  was  even  kinder 
than  usual. 

But  her  hopes  of  finding  the  lost  piece  of  money  were  dis- 
appointed. She  searched  all  through  the  drawer  in  vain;  there 
was  no  half-sovereign  to  be  seen.  Suddenly  it  struck  her  that 
Carrots  had  been  busy  "tidying"  for  Floss  that  morning. 

"Master  Carrots,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "when  you  were  busy 
at  Miss  Floss's  drawer  to-day,  you  didn't  open  mine,  did  you, 
and  touch  anything  in  it?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Carrots,  at  once,  "I'm  quite,  quite  sure  I 
didn't,  nursie." 

"You're  sure  you  didn't  touch  nurse's  purse,  or  a  little  tiny 
packet  of  white  paper,  in  her  drawer?"  inquired  Floss,  with  an 
instinct  that  the  circumstantial  details  might  possibly  recall  some 
forgotten  remembrance  to  his  mind. 

"Quite  sure,"  said  Carrots,  looking  straight  up  in  their 
faces  with  a  thoughtful,  but  not  uncertain  expression  in  his  brown 
eyes. 

"Because  nurse  has  lost  something  out  of  her  drawer,  you 
see,  Carrots  dear,  and  she  is  very  sorry  about  it,"  continued  Floss. 

"What  has  she  lost?  But  I'm  sure"  repeated  Carrots,  "I 
didn't  touch  nurse's  drawer,  nor  nucken  in  it.  What  has  nurse 
lost?" 

"A  half-sovereign "  began  Floss,  but  nurse  interrupted 

her. 

"Don't  tease  him  any  more  about  it,"  she  said;  "it's  plain 


"CARROTS"  167 

he  doesn't  know,  and  I  wouldn't  like  the  other  servants  to  hear. 
Just  forget  about  it,  Master  Carrots,  my  dear,  perhaps  nurse  will 
find  it  some  day." 

So  Carrots,  literally  obedient,  asked  no  more  questions.  He 
only  said  to  himself,  with  a  puzzled  look  on  his  face,  "A  half- 
sovereign!  I  didn't  know  nurse  had  any  sovereigns — I  thought 
only  Floss  had — and  I  never  saw  any  broken  in  halfs!" 

But  as  no  more  was  said  in  his  hearing  about  the  matter,  it 
passed  from  his  innocent  mind. 

Nurse  thought  it  right  to  tell  the  children's  mother  of  her 
loss,  and  the  girls  and  Maurice  heard  of  it  too.  They  all  were 
very  sorry  for  nurse,  for  she  took  her  own  carelessness  rather 
sorely  to  heart.  But  by  her  wish,  nothing  was  said  of  it  to  the 
two  other  servants,  one  of  whom  had  only  lately  come,  though  the 
other  had  been  with  them  many  years. 

"I'd  rather  by  far  bear  the  loss,"  said  nurse,  "than  cause  any 
ill-feeling  about  it,  ma'am." 

And  her  mistress  gave  in  to  her.  "Though  certainly  you  must 
not  bear  the  loss,  nurse,"  she  said,  kindly;  "for  in  all  these  years 
you  have  saved  me  too  many  half-sovereigns  and  whole  ones  too 
for  me  to  mind  much  about  the  loss  of  one.  And  you've  asked 
Carrots,  you  say;  you're  sure  he  knows  nothing  about  it?" 

"Quite  sure,  ma'am,"  said  nurse,  unhesitatingly. 

And  several  days  went  on,  and  nothing  more  was  said  or 
heard  about  the  half-sovereign.  Only  all  this  time  the  little  yellow 
sixpenny  lay  safely  hidden  aAvay  in  Carrots'  paint-box. 

In  a  sense  he  had  forgotten  about  it.  He  knew  it  was  safe 
there,  and  he  had  almost  fixed  in  his  mind  not  to  tell  Floss  about 
it  till  the  day  they  should  be  going  to  the  toy-shop  to  buy  their 
hoops.  Once  or  twice  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  showing  it  to 
her,  but  had  stopped  short,  thinking  how  much  more  delightful 
it  would  be  to  "surprise"  her.  He  had  quite  left  off  puzzling  his 
head  as  to  where  the  little  coin  had  come  from;  he  had  found  it 
in    Floss's    drawer,    that    was    quite    enough.      If   he    had    any 


168  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

thoughts  about  its  history,  they  were  that  either  Floss  had  had 
"the  sixpenny"  a  long  time  ago  and  had  forgotten  it,  or  that  the 
fairies  had  brought  it;  and  on  the  whole  he  inclined  to  the  latter 
explanation,  for  you  see  there  was  something  different  about 
this  sixpenny  from  any  he  had  ever  seen  before. 

Very  likely  "fairies'  sixpennies"  are  always  that  pretty  yel- 
low colour,  he  thought. 

One  day,  about  a  week  after  the  loss  of  the  half-sovereign, 
Maurice  happened  to  come  into  the  nursery  just  at  the  little 
ones'  tea-time.  It  was  a  half-holiday,  and  he  had  been  out  a 
long  walk  Math  some  of  his  companions,  for  he  still  went  to 
school  at  Sandyshore,  and  now  he  had  come  in  tremendously 
hungry  and  thirsty. 

"I  say,  nurse,"  he  exclaimed,  seating  himself  unceremoniously 
at  the  table,  "I'm  awfully  hungry,  and  mamma's  out,  and  we 
shan't  have  tea  for  two  hours  yet.  And  Carrots,  young  man,  I 
want  your  paint-box;  mine's  all  gone  to  smash,  and  Cecil  won't 
lend  me  hers,  and  I  want  to  paint  flags  with  stars  and  stripes 
for  my  new  boat." 

"Tars  and  tipes,"  repeated  Carrots,  "what's  tars  and  tipes?" 

"What's  that  to  you?"  replied  Mott,  politely.  "Bless  me, 
I  am  so  thirsty.  Give  me  your  tea,  Carrots,  and  nurse  will  make 
you  some  more.  What  awful  weak  stuff!  But  I'm  too  thirsty  to 
wait." 

He  seized  Carrots'  mug  and  drank  off  its  contents  at  one 
draught.  But  when  he  put  the  mug  down  he  made  a  very  wry 
face. 

"What  horrible  stuff!"  he  exclaimed.  "Nurse,  you've  for- 
gotten to  put  in  any  sugar." 

"No,  she  hasn't,"  said  Carrots,  bluntly. 

Nurse  smiled,  but  said  nothing,  and  Floss  looked  fidgety. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Mott.  "Don't  you  like  sugar — eh, 
young  'un?" 


"CARROTS"  169 

"Yes,  I  do  like  it,"  replied  Carrots,  but  he  would  say  no 
more. 

Floss  grew  more  and  more  uneasy. 

"Oh,  Mott,"  she  burst  out,  "please  don't  tease  Carrots.  It's 
nothing   wrong;   it's   only    something   we've   planned   ourselves." 

Mott's   curiosity   was  by  this   time   thoroughly   aroused. 

"A  secret,  is  it?"  he  exclaimed,  pricking  up  his  ears;  "you'd 
best  tell  it  me.     I'm  a  duffer  at  keeping  secrets.     Out  with  it." 

Floss  looked  ready  to  cry,  and  Carrots  shut  his  mouth  tight, 
as  if  determined  not  to  give  in.    Nurse  thought  it  time  to  interfere. 

"Master  Maurice,"  she  said,  appealingly,  "don't  tease  the 
poor  little  things,  there's  a  good  boy.  If  it  is  a  secret,  there's  no 
harm  in  it,  you  may  be  sure." 

"Tease!"  repeated  Mott,  virtuously,  "I'm  not  teasing.  I 
only  want  to  know  what  the  mystery  is — why  shouldn't  I?  I 
won't  interfere." 

Now  Mott  was  just  at  the  age  when  the  spirit  of  mischief 
is  most  apt  to  get  thorough  hold  of  a  boy ;  and  once  this  is  the  case, 
who  can  say  where  or  at  what  a  boy  will  stop?  Every  opposition 
or  contradiction  only  adds  fuel  to  the  flames,  and  not  seldom  a 
tiny  spark  may  thus  end  in  a  great  fire.  Nurse  knew  something 
of  boys  in  general,  and  of  Mott  in  particular;  and  knowing  what 
she  did,  she  decided  in  her  own  mind  that  she  had  better  take  the 
bull  by  the  horns  without  delay. 

"Miss  Floss,"  she  said  seriously,  "and  Master  Carrots,  I 
think  you  had  better  tell  your  brother  your  secret.  He'll  be  very 
kind  about  it,  you'll  see,  and  he  won't  tell  anybody." 

"Won't  you,  Mott?"  said  Floss,  jumping  up  and  down  on 
her  chair  in  her  anxiety.     "Promise." 

"Honour  bright,"  said  Mott. 

Carrots  opened  his  mouth  as  if  about  to  speak,  but  shut  it 
down  again. 

"What  were  you  going  to  say?"  said  Mott. 

"Nucken,"  replied  Carrots. 


170  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"People  don't  open  their  mouths  like  that,  if  they've  'nucken' 
to  say,"  said  Mott,  as  if  he  didn't  believe  Carrots. 

"I  didn't  mean  that  I  wasn't  going  to  say  nucken,"  said 
Carrots,  "I  mean  I  haven't  nucken  to  say  now."  » 

"And  what  were  you  going  to  say?"  persisted  Mott. 

Carrots  looked  frightened. 

"I  was  only  sinking  if  you  knowed,  and  nurse  knowed,  and 
Floss  knowed,  and  I  knowed,  it  wouldn't  be  a  secret." 

Mott  burst  out  laughing. 

"What  a  precious  goose  you  are,"  he  exclaimed.  "Well, 
secret  or  no  secret,  I'm  going  to  hear  it ;  so  tell  me." 

Floss  looked  at  nurse  despairingly. 

"You  tell,  nurse,  please,"  she  said. 

So  nurse  told,  and  Maurice  looked  more  amused  than  ever. 
"What  an  idea!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  don't  believe  Carrots'll  hold 
out  for  a  month,  whatever  Floss  may  do,  unless  he  has  a  precious 
lump  of  ac — ac — what  is  it  the  head  people  call  it? — acquisitiveness 
for  his  age.  But  you  needn't  have  made  such  a  fuss  about  your 
precious  secret.  Here,  nurse,  give  us  some  tea,  and  you  may  put 
in  all  the  sugar  Floss  and  Carrots  have  saved  by  now." 

Floss  and  Carrots  looked  ready  to  cry,  but  nurse  reassured 
them. 

"Never  you  fear,"  she  said;  "he  shall  have  what's  proper, 
but  no  more.  Never  was  such  a  boy  for  sweet  things  as  you, 
3Iaster  Mott." 

"It  shows  in  my  temper,  doesn't  it?"  he  said  saucily.  And 
then  he  was  so  pleased  with  his  own  wit  that  for  a  few  minutes 
he  forgot  to  tease,  occupying  himself  by  eating  lots  of  bread  and 
butter  instead,  so  that  tea  went  on  peaceably. 


<Oby    duffield   a  company 

"So   Floss  and   Carrots   ate   their   bread   and   milk   in   undiminished   curiosity." 

See  Page  206 


"CARROTS"  171 

CHAPTER  V 

CARROTS    IN    TROUBLE 
"But  bitter  while  they  flow,  are  childish  tears." 

"Now  Carrots,"  said  Mott,  when  he  had  eaten  what  he  con- 
sidered might  possibly  support  him  for  the  next  two  hours,  "now 
Carrots,  let's  have  the  paint-box.  You  needn't  disturb  yourself," 
he  continued,  for  Carrots  was  preparing  to  descend  from  his  high 
chair,  "I  know  where  you  keep  it;  it's  in  your  drawer,  isn't  it? 
Which  is  his  drawer,  nurse?  It'll  be  a  good  opportunity  for 
me  to  see  if  he  keeps  it  tidy." 

"No,  no,  let  me  get  it  myself,"  cried  Carrots,  tumbling  him- 
self off  his  chair  anyhow  in  his  eagerness.  "Nurse,  nurse,  don't 
tell  him  which  is  mine;  don't  let  him  take  my  paint-box,  let  me 
get  it  my  own  self." 

Nurse  looked  at  him  with  some  surprise;  it  was  seldom  the 
little  boy  so  excited  himself. 

"Master  Mott  won't  hurt  your  drawer,  my  dear,"  she  said; 
"you  don't  mind  his  having  your  paint-box,  I'm  sure.  But  do 
let  him  get  it  out  himself,  if  he  wants,  Master  Maurice,  there's 
a  dear  boy,"  she  continued,  for  Maurice  was  by  this  time  ferret- 
ing in  Floss's  drawer  with  great  gusto,  and  in  another  moment 
would  have  been  at  Carrots'!  But  Carrots  was  at  it  before  him. 
He  pulled  it  open  as  far  as  he  could,  for  in  consequence  of  Mott's 
investigations  in  the  upper  story,  he  could  not  easily  penetrate  to 
his  own  quarters.  But  he  knew  exactly  where  the  paint-box  lay, 
and  managed  to  slip  it  out,  without  Maurice's  noticing  what  he 
was  doing.  His  triumph  was  short-lived,  however:  before  he 
could  open  the  box,  Mott  was  after  him. 

"Hi,  you  young  sneak!"  he  cried,  "what  are  you  after  now? 
Give  me  the  box;  I  believe  you  want  to  take  the  best  paints 
out  before  you  lend  it  to  me,"  and  he  wrenched  the  paint-box 
out  of  his  little  brother's  hands. 


172  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"I  don't,  I  don't,"  sobbed  Carrots,  sitting  down  on  the  floor 
and  crying  bitterly;  "you  may  have  all  the  paints,  Mott,  but  it's 
my  secret,  oh,  my  secret!" 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  said  Mott,  roughly,  pulling 
out  the  lid  as  he  spoke.  The  box  had  been  all  tumbled  about  in 
the  struggle,  and  the  paints  came  rattling  out,  the  paints  and  the 
brushes,  and  the  little  saucers,  and  with  them  came  rolling  down 
on  to  the  floor,  children,  you  know  what — the  "fairies'  sixpenny," 
the  little  bright,  shining,  yellow  half-sovereign! 

A  strange  change  came  over  Mott's  face. 

"Nurse,"  he  cried,  "do  you  see  that?    What  does  that  mean?" 

Nurse  hastened  up  to  where  he  was  standing;  she  stared  for 
a  moment  in  puzzled  astonishment  at  the  spot  on  the  carpet  to 
which  the  toe  of  Maurice's  boot  was  pointing,  then  she  stooped 
down  slowly  and  picked  up  the  coin,  still  without  speaking. 

"Well,  nurse,"  said  Maurice,  impatiently,  "what  do  you  think 
of  that?' 

"My  half-sovereign,"  said  nurse,  as  if  hardly  believing  what 
she  saw. 

"Of  course  it's  your  half-sovereign,"  said  Mott,  "it's  as 
plain  as  a  pike-staff.  But  how  did  it  come  there,  that's  the 
question?" 

Nurse  looked  at  Carrots  with  puzzled  perplexity.  "He 
couldn't  have  known,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  too  low  for  Carrots 
to  hear.  He  was  still  sitting  on  the  floor  sobbing,  and  through 
his  sobs  was  to  be  heard  now  and  then  the  melancholy  cry,  "My 
secret,  oh,  my  poor  secret." 

"You  hear  what  he  says,"  said  Maurice;  "what  does  his 
'secret'  mean  but  that  he  sneaked  into  your  drawer  and  took  the 
half-sovereign,  and  now  doesn't  like  being  found  out.  I'm 
ashamed  to  have  him  for  my  brother,  that  I  am,  the  little  cad!" 

"But  he  couldn't  have  understood,"  said  nurse,  at  a  loss  how 
otherwise  to  defend  her  little  boy.    "I'm  not  even  sure  he  rightly 


"CARROTS"  173 

knew  of  my  losing  it,  and  he  might  have  taken  it,  meaning  no 
harm,  not  knowing  what  it  was,  indeed,  very  likely." 

"Rubbish,"  said  Maurice.  "A  child  that  is  going  without 
sugar  to  get  money  instead,  must  be  old  enough  to  understand 
something  about  what  money  is." 

"But  that  was  my  plan;  it  wasn't  Carrots  that  thought  of  it 
at  all,"  said  Floss,  who  all  this  time  had  stood  by,  frightened  and 
distressed,  not  knowing  what  to  say. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  Floss,"  said  Maurice,  roughly;  and 
Floss  subsided.  "Carrots,"  he  continued,  turning  to  his  brother, 
"leave  off  crying  this  minute,  and  listen  to  me.  Who  put  this 
piece  of  money  into  your  paint-box?" 

"I  did  my  own  self,"  said  Carrots. 

"What  for?" 

"To  keep  it  a  secret  for  Floss,"  sobbed  Carrots. 

Maurice  turned  triumphantly  to  nurse. 

"There,"  he  said,  "you  see!  And,"  he  continued  to  Carrots 
again,  "you  took  it  out  of  nurse's  drawer — out  of  a  little  paper 
packet?" 

"No,"  said  Carrots,  "I  didn't.    I  didn't  know  it  was  nurse's." 

"You  didn't  know  nurse  had  lost  a  half-sovereign!"  exclaimed 
Mott,  "Carrots,  how  dare  you  say  so?" 

"Yes,"  said  Carrots,  looking  so  puzzled,  that  for  a  moment  or 
two  he  forgot  to  sob,  "I  did  know;  Floss  told  me." 

"Then  how  can  you  say  you  didn't  know  this  was  nurse's?" 
said  Mott. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — I  didn't  know — I  can't  under'tand," 
cried  Carrots,  relapsing  into  fresh  sobs. 

"I  wish  your  mamma  were  in,  that  I  do,"  said  nurse,  looking 
ready  to  cry  too;  by  this  time  Floss's  tears  were  flowing  freely. 

"She  isn't,  so  it's  no  good  wishing  she  were,"  said  Maurice; 
"but  papa  is,"  he  went  on  importantly,  "and  I'll  just  take  Carrots 
to  him  and  see  what  he'll  say  to  all  this." 

"Oh,  no,  Master  Mott,  don't  do  that,  I  beg  and  pray  of  you,'* 


174  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

said  nurse,  all  but  wringing  her  hands  in  entreaty.  "Your  papa 
doesn't  understand  about  the  little  ones;  do  wait  till  your  mamma 
comes  in." 

"No,  indeed,  nurse;  it's  a  thing  papa  should  be  told,"  said 
Mott,  in  his  innermost  heart  half  inclined  to  yield,  but  working 
himself  up  to  imagine  he  was  acting  very  heroically.  And  not- 
withstanding nurse's  distress,  and  Floss's  tears,  off  he  marched  his 
unfortunate  little  brother  to  the  study. 

"Papa,"  he  said,  knocking  at  the  door,  "may  I  come  in? 
There's  something  I  must  speak  to  you  about  immediately." 

"Come  in,  then,"  was  the  reply.  "Well,  and  what's  the  mat- 
ter now?  Has  Carrots  hurt  himself?"  asked  his  father,  naturally 
enough  for  his  red-haired  little  son  looked  pitiable  in  the  extreme 
as  he  crept  into  the  room  after  Maurice,  frightened,  bewildered, 
and,  so  far  as  his  gentle  disposition  was  capable  of  such  a  feeling, 
indignant  also,  all  at  once. 

"No,"  replied  Maurice,  pushing  Carrots  forward,  "he's  not 
hurt  himself;  it's  worse  than  that.  Papa,"  he  continued  excitedly, 
"you  whipped  me  once,  when  I  was  a  little  fellow,  for  telling  a 
story.  I  am  very  sorry  to  trouble  you,  but  I  think  it's  right  you 
should  know;  I  am  afraid  you  will  have  to  punish  Carrots  more 
severely  than  you  punished  me,  for  he's  done  worse  than  tell  a 
story."  Maurice  stopped  to  take  breath,  and  looked  at  his  father 
to  see  the  effect  of  his  words.  Carrots  had  stopped  crying  to 
listen  to  what  Maurice  was  saying,  and  there  he  stood,  staring 
up  with  his  large  brown  eyes,  two  or  three  tears  still  struggling 
down  his  cheeks,  his  face  smeared  and  red  and  looking  very  miser- 
able. Yet  he  did  not  seem  to  be  in  the  least  ashamed  of  him- 
self, and  this  somehow  provoked  Mott  and  hardened  him  against 
his  brother. 

"What's  he  been  doing?"  said  their  father,  looking  at  the 
two  boys  with  more  amusement  than  anxiety,  and  then  glancing 
regretfully  at  the  newspaper  which  he  had  been  comfortably 
reading  when  Mott's  knock  came  to  the  door. 


"CARROTS"  175 

"He's  done  much  worse  than  tell  a  story,"  repeated  Maurice, 
"though  for  that  matter  he's  told  two  or  three  stories,  too.  But, 
papa,  you  know  about  nurse  losing  a  half-sovereign?  Well, 
Carrots  had  got  it  all  the  time;  he  took  it  out  of  nurse's  purse, 
and  hid  it  away  in  his  paint-box,  without  telling  anybody.  He 
can't  deny  it,  though  he  tried  to." 

"Carrots,"  said  his  father  sternly,  "is  this  true?" 

Carrots  looked  up  in  his  father's  face;  that  face,  generally 
so  kind  and  merry,  was  now  all  gloom  and  displeasure — why? — 
Carrots  could  not  understand,  and  he  was  too  frightened  and 
miserable  to  collect  his  little  wits  together  to  try  to  do  so.  He 
just  gave  a  sort  of  little  tremble  and  began  to  cry  again. 

"Carrots,"  repeated  his  father,  "is  this  true?" 

"I  don't  know,"  sobbed  Carrots. 

Now  Captain  Desart,  Carrots'  father,  was,  as  I  think  I 
have  told  you,  a  sailor.  If  any  of  you  children  have  a  sailor 
for  your  father,  you  must  not  think  I  mean  to  teach  you  to  be 
disrespectful  when  I  say  that  sailors  are,  there  is  no  doubt,  in- 
clined to  be  hot-tempered  and  hasty.  And  I  do  not  think  on  the 
whole  that  they  understand  much  about  children,  though  they 
are  often  very  fond  of  them  and  very  kind.  All  this  was  the  case 
with  Carrots'  fiather.  He  had  been  so  much  away  from  his 
children  while  they  were  little,  that  he  really  hardly  knew  how  they 
had  been  brought  up  or  trained  or  anything  about  their  childish 
ways — he  had  left  them  entirely  to  his  wife,  and  scarcely  con- 
sidered them  as  in  any  way  "his  business,"  till  they  were  quite 
big  boys  and  girls. 

But  once  he  did  begin  to  notice  them,  though  very  kind,  he 
was  very  strict.  He  had  most  decided  opinions  about  the  only  way 
of  checking  their  faults  whenever  these  were  serious  enough  to 
attract  his  attention,  and  he  could  not  and  would  not  be  troubled 
with  arguing,  or  what  he  called  "splitting  hairs,"  about  such 
matters.  A  fault  was  a  fault;  telling  a  falsehood  was  telling  a 
falsehood;  and  he  made  no  allowance  for  the  excuses  or  "palliat- 


176  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

ing  circumstances"  there  might  be  to  consider.  One  child,  ac- 
cording to  his  ideas,  was  to  be  treated  exactly  like  another ;  why 
the  same  offence  should  deserve  severer  punishment  with  a  self- 
willed,  self-confident,  bold,  matter-of-fact  lad,  such  as  Maurice, 
than  with  a  timid,  fanciful,  baby-like  creature  as  was  his  little  Fabian, 
he  could  not  have  understood  had  he  tried. 

Nurse  knew  all  this  by  long  experience;  no  wonder,  kind 
though  she  knew  her  master  to  be,  that  she  trembled  when  Mott 
announced  his  intention  of  laying  the  whole  affair  before  his 
father. 

But  poor  Carrots  did  not  know  anything  about  it.  "Papa" 
had  never  been  "cross"  to  him  before,  and  he  was  far  from  clearly 
understanding  why  he  was  "cross"  to  him  now.  So  he  just  sobbed 
and  said  "I  don't  know,"  which  was  about  the  worst  thing  he  could 
possibly  have  said  in  his  own  defence,  though  literally  the  truth. 

"No  or  yes,  sir,"  said  Captain  Desart,  his  voice  growing 
louder  and  sterner — I  think  he  really  forgot  that  it  was  a  poor 
little  shrimp  of  six  years  old  he  was  speaking  to — "no  nonsense  of 
'don't  knows.'  Did  you  or  did  you  not  take  nurse's  half-sovereign 
out  of  her  drawer  and  keep  it  for  your  own?" 

"No,"  said  Carrots,  "I  never  took  nucken  out  of  nurse's 
drawer.  I  never  did,  papa,  and  I  didn't  know  nurse  had  any 
sovereigns." 

"Didn't  you  know  nurse  had  lost  a  half-sovereign?  Car- 
rots, how  can  you  say  so?"  interrupted  Mott. 

"Yes,  Floss  told  me,"  said  Carrots. 

"And  Floss  hid  it  away  in  your  paint-box,  I  suppose?"  said 
Mott,  sarcastically. 

"No,  Floss  didn't.  I  hided  the  sixpenny  my  own  self,"  said 
Carrots,  looking  more  and  more  puzzled. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  Maurice,"  said  his  father,  angrily.  "Go 
and  fetch  the  money  and  the  tom-fool  paint-box  thing  that  you  say  he 
had  it  in." 

Mott  did  as  he  was  told.     He  ran  to  the  nursery  and  back 


"CARROTS"  177 

as  fast  as  he  could;  but,  unobserved  by  him,  Floss  managed  to 
run  after  him  and  crept  into  the  study  so  quietly  that  her  father 
never  noticed  her. 

Maurice  laid  the  old-paint-box  and  the  half-sovereign  down 
on  the  table  in  front  of  his  father;  Captain  Desart  held  up  the 
little  coin  between  his  finger  and  thumb. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "Carrots,  look  at  this.  Did  you  or  did 
you  not  take  this  piece  of  money  out  of  nurse's  drawer  and  hide 
it  away  in  your  paint-box?" 

Carrots  stared  hard  at  the  half-sovereign. 

"I  did  put  in  in  my  paint-box,"  he  said,  and  then  he  stopped. 

"What  for?"  said  his  father. 

"I  wanted  to  keep  it  for  a  secret,"  he  replied.  "I  wanted 
to— to " 

"What?"   thundered   Captain   Desart. 

"To  buy  something  at  the  toy-shop  with  it,"  sobbed  Carrots. 

Captain  Desart  sat  down  and  looked  at  Mott  for  sympathy. 

"Upon  my  soul,"  he  said,  "one  could  hardly  believe  it.  A 
child  that  one  would  think  scarcely  knew  the  value  of  money! 
Where  can  he  have  learnt  such  cunning;  you  say  you  are  sure  he 
was  told  of  nurse's  having  lost  a  half-sovereign?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mott;  "he  confesses  to  that  much  himself." 

"Floss  told  me,"  said  Carrots. 

"Then  how  can  you  pretend  you  didn't  take  it  out  of  her 
drawer,  too,"  said  his  father. 

"I  don't  know.  I  didn't  take  it  out  of  her  drawer;  it  was 
'aside  Floss's  doll,"  said  Carrots. 

"He's  trying  to  equivocate,"  said  his  father.  Then  he  turned 
to  the  child  again,  looking  more  determined  than  ever. 

"Carrots,"  he  said,  "I  must  whip  you  for  this.  Do  you 
know  that  I  am  ashamed  to  think  you  are  my  son?  If  you  were 
a  poor  boy  you  might  be  put  in  prison  for  this." 

Carrots  looked  too  bewildered  to  understand.  "In  prison," 
he  repeated.     "Would  the  prison-man  take  me?" 


178  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"What  does  he  mean?"  said  Captain  Desart. 

Floss,  who  had  been  waiting  unobserved  in  her  corner  all 
this  time,  thought  this  a  good  opportunity  for  coming  forward. 

"He  means  the  policeman,"  she  said.  "Oh,  papa,"  she  went 
on,  running  up  to  her  little  brother  and  throwing  her  arms  round 
him,  the  tears  streaming  down  her  face,  "oh,  papa,  poor  little 
Carrots!  he  doesn't  understand." 

"Where  did  you  come  from?"  said  her  father,  gruffly  but  not 
unkindly,  for  Floss  was  rather  a  favourite  of  his.  "What  do 
you  mean  about  his  not  understanding?  Did  you  know  about  this 
business,  Floss?" 

"Oh,  no,  papa,"  said  Floss,  her  face  flushing;  "I'm  too  big 
not  to  understand." 

"Of  course  you  are,"  said  Captain  Desart;  "and  Carrots  is 
big  enough,  too,  to  understand  the  very  plain  rule  that  he  is  not 
to  touch  what  does  not  belong  to  him.  He  was  told,  too,  that 
nurse  had  lost  a  half-sovereign,  and  he  might  then  have  owned  to 
having  taken  it  and  given  it  back,  and  then  things  would  not  have 
looked  so  bad.  Take  him  up  to  my  dressing-room,  Maurice,  and 
leave  him  there  till  I  come." 

"May  I  go  with  him,  papa?"  said  Floss  very  timidly. 

"No,"  said  her  father,  "you  may  not." 

So  Mott  led  off  poor  weeping  Carrots,  and  all  the  way  up- 
stairs he  kept  sobbing  to  himself,  "I  never  touched  nurse's  sover- 
eigns.    I  never  did.     I  didn't  know  she  had  any  sovereigns." 

"Hold  your  tongue,"  said  Mott;  "what  is  the  use  of  telling 
more  stories  about  it?" 

"I  didn't  tell  stories.  I  said  I  hided  the  sixpenny  my  own 
self,  but  I  never  touched  nurse's  sovereigns ;  I  never  did." 

"I  believe  you're  more  than  half  an  idiot,"  said  Mott,  angry 
and  yet  sorry — angry  with  himself,  too,  somehow. 

Floss,  left  alone  with  her  father,  ventured  on  another  appeal. 

"You  won't  whip  Carrots  till  mamma  comes  in,  will  you, 
papa?"  she  said  softly. 


"CARROTS"  179 

"Why  not?  Do  you  think  I  want  her  to  help  me  to  whip 
him?"  said  Captain  Desart. 

"Oh  no — but — I  think  perhaps  mamma  would  understand 
better  how  it  was,  for,  oh,  papa,  dear,  Carrots  isn't  a  naughty  boy ; 
he  never,  never  tells  stories." 

"Well,  we'll  see,"  replied  her  father;  "and  in  the  meanwhile  it 
will  do  him  no  harm  to  think  things  over  by  himself  in  my  dress- 
ing-room for  a  little." 

"Oh,  poor  Carrots!"  murmured  Floss  to  herself;  "it'll  be 
getting  dark,  and  he's  all  alone.    I  wish  mamma  would  come  in!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

CARROTS  "ALL  ZIGHT"  AGAIN 

"When  next  the  summer  breeze  comes  by, 
And  waves  the  bush,  the  flower  is  dry." 

Walter  Scott. 

Floss  crept  upstairs  to  the  dressing-room  door.  It  was 
locked.  Though  the  key  was  in  the  lock,  she  knew  she  must 
not  turn  it;  and  even  had  it  been  open  she  would  not  have  dared 
to  go  in,  after  her  father's  forbidding  it.  But  she  thought  she 
might  venture  to  speak  to  Carrots,  to  comfort  him  a  little,  through 
the  door.  She  was  dreadfully  afraid  that  he  might  feel  fright- 
ened in  there  alone  if  it  got  dark  before  he  was  released,  for 
sometimes  he  was  afraid  of  the  dark — he  was  such  a  little  bojr, 
remember. 

Floss  tapped  at  the  door. 

"Carrots,"  she  said,  "  are  you  there?" 

"Yes,"  said  Carrots;  "but  you  can't  come  in,  Floss.  Mott 
has  locked  me  in." 

"I  know,"  said  Floss ;  "what  are  you  doing,  Carrots.  Are  you 
very  unhappy?' 


180  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"Not  so  very.  I'm  crying — I'm  crying  a  great  lot,  Floss, 
but  I  don't  think  I'm  so  very  unhappy — not  now  you've  come 
to  the  door." 

"Poor  Carrots,"  said  Floss,  "I'll  stay  by  the  door,  if  you 
like.  I'll  just  run  down  to  the  front  door  now  and  then,  to  see 
if  mamma  is  coming,  and  then  I'll  come  straight  back  to  you." 

"All  zight,"  said  Carrots.  Whenever  he  wanted  to  seem  very 
brave,  and  rather  a  big  boy,  he  used  to  say  "all  zight,"  and  just 
now  he  was  trying  very  hard  to  be  like  a  big  boy. 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute  or  two.  Then  Carrots  called 
out  again. 

"Floss,"  he  said,  "are  you  there?" 

"Yes,  dear,"  replied  faithful  Floss. 

"I  want  just  to  tell  you  one  thing,"  he  said.  "Floss,  I 
never  did  touch  nurse's  sovereigns.     I  never  knowed  she  had  any." 

"It  wasn't  a  sovereign;  it  was  a  7zaZ/-sovereign,"  corrected 
Floss. 

"I  don't  under'tand  how  it  could  be  a  half-sovereign,"  said 
Carrots.  "But  I  never  touched  nurse's  drawer,  nor  nucken 
in  it." 

"Then  where  did  you  find  the  half-sovereign?"  began  Floss, 
"and  why — oh,  Carrots,"  she  broke  off,  "I  do  believe  that's  the 
front  door  bell.     It'll  be  mamma  coming.     I  must  run  down." 

"All  zight,"  called  out  Carrots  again.  "Don't  be  long, 
Floss;  but  please  tell  mamma  all  about  it.     I  don't  under'tand." 

He  gave  a  little  sigh  of  perplexity  and  lay  down  on  the  floor 
near  the  window  where  the  room  was  lightest,  for  the  darkness 
was  now  beginning  to  creep  in  and  he  felt  very  lonely. 

Poor  Mrs.  Desart  hardly  knew  what  to  think  or  say,  when, 
almost  before  she  had  got  into  the  house,  she  was  seized  upon  by 
Maurice  and  Floss,  each  eager  to  tell  their  own  story.  Carrots 
naughty,  Carrots  in  disgrace,  was  such  an  extraordinary  idea! 

"Nurse,"  she  exclaimed,  perceiving  her  at  the  end  of  the 
passage,    whence   she   had    been    watching   as    anxiously    as    the 


"CARROTS"  181 

children  for  her  mistress's  return,  "nurse,  what  is  the  meaning  of 
it  all?' 

"Indeed,  ma'am,"  nurse  was  beginning,  hut  she  was  inter- 
rupted. "Come  in  here,  Lucy,"  said  Captain  Desart  to  his  wife, 
opening  the  study  door,  "come  in  here  before  you  go  upstairs." 

And  Mrs.  Desart  did  as  he  asked,  but  Floss  again  managed 
to  creep  in  too,  almost  hidden  in  the  folds  of  her  mother's  dress. 

"I  can't  believe  that  Carrots  is  greedy,  or  cunning,  or  obsti- 
nate," said  his  mother,  when  she  heard  all.  "I  cannot  think  that 
he  understood  what  he  was  doing  when  he  took  the  half-sovereign." 

"But  the  hiding  it,"  said  Captain  Desart,  "the  hiding  it, 
and  yet  to  my  face  persisting  that  he  had  never  touched  nurse's 
half-sovereign.     I  can't  make  the  child  out." 

"He  says  he  didn't  know  nurse  had  any  sovereigns,"  put 
in  Floss. 

"Are  you  there  again,  you  ubiquitous  child?"  said  her 
father. 

Floss  looked  rather  frightened — such  a  long  word  as  ubi- 
quitous must  surely  mean  something  very  naughty;  but  her 
father's  voice  was  not  angry,  so  she  took  courage. 

"Does  he  know  what  a  sovereign  means?"  said  Mrs.  Desart. 
"Perhaps  there  is  some  confusion  in  his  mind  which  makes  him 
seem  obstinate  when  he  isn't  so  really." 

"He  said  he  knew  I  had  sovereigns,"  said  Floss,  "and  I 
couldn't  think  what  he  meant.  Oh,  mamma,"  she  went  on  sud- 
denly, "I  do  believe  I  know  what  he  was  thinking  of.  It  Was  my 
kings  and  queens." 

And  before  her  father  or  mother  could  stop  her,  she  had 
darted  off  to  the  nursery.  In  two  minutes  she  was  back  again, 
holding  out  to  her  mother  a  round  wooden  box — the  sort  of  box 
one  often  used  to  see  with  picture  alphabets  for  little  children, 
but  instead  of  an  alphabet,  Floss's  box  contained  a  set  of  round 
card,  each  about  the  size  of  the  top  of  a  wine-glass,  with  the 


182  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

heads  of  all  the  English  kings  and  queens,  from  William  the 
Conqueror  down  to  Victoria! 

"  'Sovereigns  of  England,'  mamma,  you  see,"  she  exclaimed, 
pointing  to  the  words  on  the  lid,  and  quite  out  of  breath  with  hurry 
and  excitement,  "and  I  very  often  call  them  my  sovereigns;  and 
of  course  Carrots  didn't  understand  how  there  could  be  a  half  one 
of  them,  nor  how  nurse  could  have  any." 

"It  must  be  so,"  said  Mrs.  Desart  to  her  husband;  "the  poor 
child  really  did  not  understand." 

"But  still  the  taking  the  money  at  all,  and  hiding  it?"  said 
Captain  Desart.  "I  don't  see  that  it  would  be  right  not  to  punish 
him." 

"He  has  been  punished  already- — pretty  severely  for  him,  I 
fancy,"  said  Floss's  mother,  with  a  rather  sad  smile.  "You  will 
leave  him  to  me  now,  won't  you,  Frank?"  she  asked  her  husband. 
"I  will  go  up  and  see  him,  and  try  to  make  him  thoroughly  under- 
stand. Give  me  the  sovereigns,  Floss  dear,  I'll  take  them 
with  me." 

Somewhat  slowly,  Carrots'  mother  made  her  way  upstairs. 
She  was  tired  and  rather  troubled.  She  did  not  believe  that  her 
poor  little  boy  had  really  done  wrong  wilfully,  but  it  seemed  diffi- 
cult to  manage  well  among  so  many  children;  she  was  grieved, 
also,  at  Maurice's  hastiness  and  want  of  tender  feeling,  and  she 
saw,  too,  how  little  fitted  Carrots  was  to  make  his  way  in  this 
rough-and-ready  world. 

"How  would  it  be  without  me!  My  poor  children,"  she 
thought  with  a  sigh. 

But  a  little  hand  was  slipped  into  hers. 

"Mamma,  dear,  I'm  so  glad  you  thought  of  the  sovereigns. 
I'm  sure  Carrots  didn't  mean  to  be  naughty.  Mamma  dear,  though 
he  is  so  little,  Carrots  always  means  to  be  good;  I  don't  think 
he  could  even  be  frightened  into  doing  anything  that  he  understood 
was  naughty,  though  he  is  so  easily  frightened  other  ways." 

"My  good  little  Floss,  my  comforter,"  said  her  mother,  pat- 


"CARROTS"  183 

ting  Floss's  hand,  and  then  they  together  made  their  way  to  the 
dressing-room. 

It  was  almost  dark.  The  key  was  in  the  lock,  and  Mrs. 
Desart  felt  for  it  and  turned  it.  But  when  she  opened  the  door 
it  was  too  dark  in  the  room  to  distinguish  anything. 

"Carrots,"  she  said,  but  there  was  no  answer.  "Where  can 
he  be?"  she  said  rather  anxiously.     "Floss,  run  and  get  a  light." 

Floss  ran  off:  she  was  back  again  in  a  minute,  for  she  had 
met  nurse  on  the  stairs  with  a  candle  in  her  hand.  But  even  with 
the  light  they  could  not  all  at  once  find  Carrots,  and  though  they 
called  to  him  there  was  no  answer. 

"Can  he  have  got  out  of  the  window?"  Mrs.  Desart  was 
beginning  to  say,  when  Floss  interrupted  her. 

"Here  he  is,  mamma,"  she  exclaimed.  "Oh,  poor  little  Car- 
rots!   Mamma,  nursie,  do  look." 

There  he  was  indeed — fast,  fast  asleep!  Extra  fast  sleep, 
for  his  troubles  and  his  tears  had  worn  him  out.  He  was  lying  in 
a  corner  of  a  large  closet  opening  out  of  the  dressing-room.  In 
this  closet  Captain  Desart  hung  up  his  coats  and  dressing-gowns, 
and  doubtless  Carrots  had  crept  into  it  when  the  room  began 
to  get  dark,  feeling  as  if  in  the  hanging  garments  there  was  some 
comfort  and  protection;  and  there  he  lay,  looking  so  fair  and 
innocent,  prettier  than  when  he  was  awake,  for  his  cheeks  had 
more  colour,  and  his  long  eyelashes,  reddy-brown  like  his  hair, 
showed  clearly  on  his  fair  skin. 

"Poor  little  fellow,  how  sweet  he  looks,"  said  Mrs.  Desart. 
"Nurse,  lift  him  up  and  try  to  put  him  to  bed  without  waking 
him.  We  must  wait  to  disentangle  the  confusion  in  his  mind  till 
to-morrow  morning." 

And  very  tenderly  nurse  lifted  him  up  and  carried  him  off. 

"My  bonnie  wee  man,"  she  murmured;  for  though  it  was 
many  and  many  a  day  since  she  had  seen  her  native  land,  and  she 
had  journeyed  with  her  master  and  mistress  to  strange  countries 


184  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"far  over  the  sea,"  she  was  apt  when  her  feelings  were  stirred  to 
fall  back  into  her  own  childish  tongue. 

So  no  more  was  said  to  or  about  Carrots  that  evening;  but 
Floss  went  to  bed  quite  happy  and  satisfied  that  "mamma"  would 
put  it  all  right  in  the  morning.  I  don't  think  Mott  went  to  bed 
in  so  comfortable  a  mood;  yet  his  mother  had  said  nothing 
to  him! 

Cecil  and  Louise  had,  though.  Cecil  told  him  right  out  that 
he  was  a  horrid  telltale,  and  Louise  said  She  only  wished  he  had 
red  hair  instead  of  Carrots;  which  expressions  of  feeling  on  the 
part  of  such  very  grown-up  young  ladies  meant  a  good  deal,  for 
it  was  not  often  they  troubled  themselves  much  about  nursery 
matters.  Cecil,  that  is  to  say,  for  Louise,  who  was  fair-haired 
and  soft  and  gentle,  and  played  very  nicely  on  the  piano,  was 
just  a  shadow  of  Cecil,  and  if  Cecil  had  proposed  that  they  should 
stay  in  bed  all  day  and  get  up  all  night,  would  have  thought  it  a 
very  good  idea! 

And  the  next  morning  Mrs.  Desart  had  a  long  talk  with 
Carrots.  It  was  all  explained  and  made  clear,  and  the  difference 
between  the  two  kinds  of  "sovereigns"  shown  to  him.  And  he 
told  his  mother  all — all,  that  is  to  say,  except  the  "plan"  for 
saving  sugar  and  getting  money  instead,  which  had  first  put  it 
into  his  head  to  keep  the  half-sovereign  to  get  a  new  doll  for 
Floss.  He  began  to  tell  about  the  plan,  but  stopped  when  he 
remembered  that  it  was  Floss's  secret  as  well  as  his  own;  and 
when  he  told  his  mother  this,  she  said  he  was  quite  right  not  to 
tell  without  Floss's  leave,  and  that  as  nurse  knew  about  it,  they 
might  still  keep  it  for  their  secret,  if  they  liked,  which  Carrots 
was  very  glad  to  hear. 

He  told  his  mother  about  his  thinking  perhaps  the  fairies 
had  brought  the  "sixpenny,"  and  she  explained  to  him  that  now- 
a-days,  alas!  that  was  hardly  likely  to  be  the  case,  though  she 
seemed  quite  to  understand  his  fancying  it,  and  did  not  laugh  at 
him  at  all.     But  she  spoke  very  gravely  to  him,  too,  about  never 


"CARROTS"  185 

taking  anything  that  was  not  his;  and,  after  listening  and  think- 
ing with  all  his  might,  Carrots  said  he  thought  he  "kite 
under'tood." 

"I  am  never,  never  to  taken  nueken  that  I'm  not  sure  is 
mine,"  he  said  slowly.  "And  if  ever  I'm  not  sure  I'm  to  ask 
somebody,  you,  or  nursie,  or  Floss — or  sometimes,  perhaps,  Cecil. 
But  I  don't  think  I'd  better  ask  Mott,  for  perhaps  he  wouldn't 
under'tood." 

But  Mott's  mother  took  care  that  before  the  day  was  over 
Mott  should  "under'tand"  something  of  where  and  how  he  had 
been  in  fault;  that  there  are  sometimes  ways  of  doing  right  which 
turn  it  into  "wrong";  and  that  want  of  pity  and  tenderness  for 
the  vnong-doer  never,  never  can  be  right. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A   LONG    AGO    STORY 

"You  may  laugh,  my  little  people, 
But  be  sure  my  story's  true; 
For  I  vow  by  yon  church  steeple, 
I  was  once  a  child  like  you." 

The  Land  of  Long  Ago. 

If  any  of  you  children  have  travelled  much,  have  you  noticed 
that  on  a  long  journey  there  seem  to  come  points,  turns — I 
hardly  know  what  to  call  them — after  which  the  journey  seems 
to  go  on  differently.  More  quickly,  perhaps  more  cheerfully,  or 
possibly  less  so,  but  certainly  differently.  Looking  back  after- 
wards you  see  it  was  so — "from  the  time  we  all  looked  out  of 
the  window  at  the  ruined  abbey  we  seemed  to  get  on  so  much 
faster,"  you  would  say,  or— "after  the  steamer  had  passed  the 
Spearhead  Point,  we  began  to  feel  dull  and  tired,  and  there  was 
no  more  sunshine." 

I  think  it  is  so  in  life.     Suddenly,  often  quite  unknowingly, 


186  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

we  turn  a  corner  sometimes  of  our  history,  sometimes  of  our 
characters,  and  looking  back,  long  afterwards,  we  make  a  date 
of  that  point.  It  was  so  just  now  with  my  little  Carrots.  This 
trouble  of  his  about  the  half-sovereign  changed  him.  I  do  not 
mean  to  say  that  it  saddened  him  and  made  him  less  happy  than  he 
had  been- — at  his  age,  thank  God,  few,  if  any  children  have  it  in 
them  to  be  so  deeply  affected — but  it  changed  him.  It  was  his 
first  peep  out  into  life,  and  it  gave  him  his  first  real  thoughts  about 
things.  It  made  him  see  how  a  little  wrong  doing  may  cause 
great  sorrow;  it  gave  him  his  first  vague,  misty  glimpse  of  that, 
to  my  thinking,  saddest  of  all  sad  things — the  way  in  which  it 
is  possible  for  our  very  nearest  and  dearest  to  mistake  and  mis- 
understand us. 

He  had  been  in  some  ways  a  good  deal  of  a  baby  for  his 
age,  there  is  no  doubt.  He  had  a  queer,  babylike  way  of  not 
seeming  to  take  in  quickly  what  was  said  to  him,  and  staring  up 
in  your  face  with  his  great  oxen-like  eyes,  that  did  a  little  excuse 
Maurice's  way  of  laughing  at  him  and  telling  'him  he  was  "half- 
witted." But  no  one  that  really  looked  at  those  honest,  sensible, 
tender  eyes  could  for  an  instant  have  thought  there  was  any 
"want"  in  their  owner.  It  was  all  there — the  root  of  all  goodness, 
cleverness,  and  manliness — just  as  in  the  acorn  there  is  the  oak; 
but  of  course  it  had  a  great  deal  of  growing  before  it,  and,  more 
than  mere  growing,  it  would  need  all  the  care  and  watchful  ten- 
derness and  wise  directing  that  could  be  given  it,  just  as  the  acorn 
needs  all  the  rain  and  sunshine  and  good  nourishing  soil  it  can 
get,  to  become  a  fine  oak,  straight  and  strong  and  beautiful.  For 
what  do  I  mean  by  "it,"  children?  I  mean  the  "own  self"  of 
Carrots,  the  wonderful  "something"  in  the  little  childish  frame 
which  the  wisest  of  all  the  wise  men  of  either  long  ago  or  now- 
a-days  have  never  yet  been  able  to  describe — the  "soul,"  children, 
which  is  in  you  all,  which  may  grow  into  so  beautiful,  so  lovely 
and  perfect  a  thing;  which  may,  alas!  be  twisted  and  stunted  and 
starved  out  of  all  likeness  to  the  "image"  in  which  it  was  created. 


"CARROTS"  187 

Do  you  understand  a  little  why  It  seems  sometimes  such  a 
very,  very  solemn  thing  to  have  the  charge  of  children?  When 
one  thinks  what  they  should  be,  and  again  when  one  thinks  what 
they  may  be,  is  it  not  a  solemn,  almost  too  solemn  a  thought? 
Only  we,  who  feel  this  so  deeply,  take  heart  when  we  remember 
that  the  Great  Gardener  who  never  makes  mistakes  has  promised 
to  help  us;  even  out  of  our  mistakes  to  bring  good. 

As  I  have  said  the  affair  of  the  lost  half-sovereign  did  not 
leave  any  lastingly  painful  impression  on  Carrots,  but  for  some 
days  he  seemed  unusually  quiet  and  pale  and  a  little  sad.  He 
had  caught  cold,  too,  with  falling  asleep  on  the  dressing-room 
floor,  nurse  said,  for  the  weather  was  still  exceedingly  chilly, 
though  the  spring  was  coming  on.  So  altogether  he  was  rather  a 
miserable  looking  little  Carrots. 

He  kept  out  of  the  way  and  did  not  complain,  but  "mamma" 
and  nurse  and  Floss  did  not  need  complaints  to  make  them  see 
that  their  little  man  was  not  quite  himself,  and  they  were  extra 
kind  to  him. 

There  came  just  then  some  very  dull  rainy  days,  regular 
rainy  days,  not  stormy,  but  to  the  children  much  more  disagree- 
able than  had  they  been  so.  For  in  stormy  weather  at  the  sea- 
side there  is  too  much  excitement  for  any  one  to  think  whether 
it  is  disagreeable  or  not — there  is  the  splendid  sight  of  the  angry, 
troubled  sea,  there  are  the  wonderful  "storm  songs"  of  the  wind 
to  listen  to.  Of  course,  as  Carrots  used  to  say,  at  such  times 
it  is  "dedful"  to  think  of  the  poor  sailors ;  but  even  in  thinking  of 
them  there  is  something  that  takes  one's  thoughts  quite  away 
from  one's  self,  and  one's  own  worries  and  trodbles — all  the 
marvellous  stories  of  shipwreck  and  adventure,  from  Grace  Darl- 
ing to  old  Sinbad,  come  rushing  into  one's  mind,  and  one  feels  as 
if  the  sea  were  the  only  part  of  the  world  worth  living  on. 

But  even  at  the  seaside,  regular,  steady,  "stupid"  rainy  days 
are  trying.  Carrots  sat  at  the  nursery  window  one  of  these  dull 
afternoons  looking  out  wistfully. 


188  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"Floss,"  he  said,  for  Floss  was  sitting  on  the  floor  learning 
her  geography  for  the  next  day,  "Floss,  it  is  so  raining." 

"I  know,"  said  Floss,  stopping  a  minute  in  her  "principal 
rivers  of  northern  Europe."  "I  wish  there  wasn't  so  much  rain, 
and  then  there  wouldn't  be  so  many  rivers;  or  perhaps  if  there 
weren't  so  many  rivers  there  wouldn't  be  so  much  rain.  I  wonder 
which  it  is!" 

"Which  beginned  first — rivers  or  rain?"  said  Carrots,  medita- 
tively, "that  would  tell." 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  believe  anybody  does," 
said  Floss,  going  on  again  with  her  lesson.  "Be  quiet,  Carrots, 
for  one  minute,  and  then  I'll  talk  to  you." 

Carrots  sat  silent  for  about  a  minute  and  a  half;  then  he 
began  again. 

"Floss,"  he  said. 

"Well."  replied  Floss.    "I've  very  nearly  done,  Carrots." 

"It's  werry  dull  to-day,  Floss;  the  sea  looks  dull  too,  it 
isn't  dancey  a  bit  to-day,  and  the  sands  look  as  if  they  would 
never  be  nice  for  running  on  again." 

"Oh,  but  they  will,  Master  Carrots,"  said  nurse,  who  was 
sitting  near,  busy  darning  stockings.  "Dear,  dear!  don't  I  re- 
member feeling  just  so  when  I  was  a  child?  In  winter  thinking 
summer  would  never  come,  and  in  summer  forgetting  all  about 
winter!" 

"Is  it  a  werry  long  tune  since  you  were  a  child?"  inquired 
Carrots,  directing  his  attention  to  nurse. 

"It's  getting  on  for  a  good  long  tune,  my  dear,"  said  nurse, 
with  a  smile. 

"Please  tell  me  about  it,"  said  Carrots. 

"Oh  yes,  nursie  dear,  do,"  said  Floss,  jumping  up  from  the 
floor  and  shutting  her  book.  "I've  done  all  my  lessons,  and  it 
would  just  be  nice  to  have  a  story.  It  would  amuse  poor  little 
Carrots." 

"But  you  know  all  my  stories  as  well,  or  even  better,  than 


"CARROTS"  180 

I  do  myself,"  objected  nurse,  "not  that  they  were  ever  much  to 
tell,  any  of  them." 

"Oh  yes,  they  were.  They  are  very  nice  stories  indeed," 
said  Floss,  encouragingly.  "And  I'm  very  fond  of  what  you 
call  your  mother's  stories,  too — aren't  you,  Carrots? — about  the 
children  she  was  nurse  to — Master  Hugh  and  Miss  Janet.  Tell 
us  more  about  them,  nursie." 

"You've  heard  all  the  stories  about  them,  my  dears,  I'm 
afraid,"  said  nurse.  "At  least,  I  can't  just  now  think  of  any 
worth  telling  but  what  you've  heard." 

"Well,  let's  hear  some  not  worth  the  telling,"  said  Floss, 
persistently.  "Nurse,"  she  went  on,  "how  old  must  Master  Hugh 
and  Miss  Janet  be  by  now?    Do  you  know  where  they  are?" 

"Master  Hugh  is  dead,"  said  nurse,  "many  a  year  ago,  poor 
fellow,  and  little  Miss  Janet — why  she  was  fifteen  years  older 
than  I ;  mother  only  left  them  to  be  married  when  Miss  Janet  was 
past  twelve.  She  must  he  quite  an  old  lady  by  now,  if  she  is 
alive — with  grandchildren  as  old  as  you,  perhaps!  How  strange 
it  seems!" 

"She  must  have  been  a  very  nice  little  girl,  and  so  must 
Master  Hugh  have  been — a  nice  little  boy,  I  mean.  That  story 
of  'Mary  Ann  Jolly'  was  so  interesting.  I  suppose  they  never 
did  anything  naughty?"  said  Floss,  insinuatingly. 

"Oh,  but  they  did."  replied  nurse,  quite  unsuspicious  of  the 
trap  laid  for  her.  "Master  Hugh  was  very  mischievous.  Did  I 
never  tell  you  what  they  did  to  their  dog  Caesar?" 

"No,  never,"  said  both  the  children  in  a  breath;  "do  tell  us." 

"Well,  it  was  one  Sunday  morning,  to  tell  it  as  mother  told 
me,"  began  nurse.  "You  know,  my  dears,"  she  broke  off  again,  "it 
was  in  Scotland,  and  rather  an  out-of-the-way  part  where  they 
lived.  I  know  the  place  well,  of  course,  for  it  wasn't  till  I  was 
seventeen  past  that  I  ever  left  it.  It  is  a  pretty  place,  out  of 
the  way  even  now,  I'm  told,  with  railways  and  all,  and  in  those 
days  it  was  even  more  out-of-the-way.     Six  miles  from  the  church, 


190  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

and  the  prayers  and  the  sermon  very  long  when  you  got  there! 
Many  and  many  a  time  I've  fallen  asleep  at  church,  when  I  was 
a  little  girl.  Well,  to  go  back  to  Master  Hugh  and  Miss  Janet. 
It  was  on  a  Sunday  morning  they  did  the  queer  piece  of  mis- 
chief I'm  going  to  tell  you  of.  They  had  been  left  at  home  with 
no  one  but  an  old  woman,  who  was  too  deaf  to  go  to  church,  to 
look  after  them.  She  lived  in  the  lodge  close  by,  and  used  to  come 
into  the  house  to  help  when  the  servants  were  busy,  for  she  was 
a  very  trusty  old  body.  It  was  not  often  the  children  were  left 
without  mother,  or  perhaps  one  of  the  housemaids,  to  take  care 
of  them,  and  very  often  in  fine  weather  they  used  to  be  taken  to 
church  themselves,  though  it  was  tiring  like  for  such  young  things. 
But  this  Sunday,  everybody  had  gone  to  church  because  it  was 
the  time  of  the  preaching " 

"The  what,  nurse?"  said  Floss.  "Isn't  there  preaching  every 
Sunday  at  church?' 

"Oh  yes,  my  dear;  but  what  we  call  the  preachings  in  Scot- 
land means  the  time  when  there  is  the  communion  service,  which 
is  only  twice  a  year.  You  can't  understand,  my  dear,"  seeing  that 
Floss  looked  as  mystified  as  ever;  "but  never  mind.  When  you 
are  older,  you  will  find  that  there  are  many  different  ways  of 
saying  and  doing  the  same  things  in  churches,  just  like  among 
people.  But  this  Sunday  I  am  telling  you  of,  the  services  were 
to  be  very  long  indeed,  too  long  for  the  children,  considering  the 
six  miles'  drive  and  all.  So  they  were  left  at  home  with  old 
Phemie." 

"Did  they  mind?"  said  Carrots. 

"Oh  no;  I  fancy  they  were  very  well  pleased.  They  were 
always  very  happy  together,  the  two  of  them  and  Caesar.'* 

"And  of  course  they  promised  to  be  very  good,"  said  Floss. 

"No  doubt  of  that,"  said  nurse,  with  a  smile.  "Well,  they 
certainly  hit  upon  a  queer  way  of  amusing  themselves.  Mother 
came  home  from  church  one  of  the  earliest;  she  had  a  lift  in  one 
of  the  farmer's  carts,  and  came  in  at  the  lodge  gate  just  as 


"CARROTS"  191 

the  carriage  with  her  master  and  mistress  and  the  young  ladies 
was  driving  up.  They  all  got  out  at  the  big  gate,  and  let  the 
coachman  drive  round  to  the  stable  the  back  way,  and  mother 
came  quietly  walking  up  the  drive  behind  them.  They  were 
talking  seriously  about  the  sermon  they  had  heard,  and  feeling 
rather  solemn-like,  I  dare  say,  when  all  at  once  there  flew  down 
the  drive  to  meet  them  the  most  fearsome-like  creature  that  ever  was 
seen.  It  was  like  nothing  in  nature,  my  mother  said,  about  the  size  of 
a  large  wolf,  but  with  a  queer-shaped  head  and  body — at  least 
they  looked  queer  to  them,  not  knowing  what  it  was — and  not 
a  particle  of  hair  or  coat  of  any  kind  upon  it.  It  rushed  up  to 
my  lady,  that  was  Miss  Janet's  mother,  and  tried  to  leap  upon 
her;  but  she  shrieked  to  her  husband,  and  he  up  with  his  stick — 
he  always  took  a  stick  about  with  him — and  was  just  on  the  point 
of  giving  it  a  fearful  blow,  never  thinking  but  What  it  was  one 
of  the  beasts  escaped  from  some  travelling  show,  when  one  of  the 
young  ladies  caught  his  arm. 

"'Stop  father!'  she  cried.  'Don't  you  see  who  it  is?  It's 
Caesar.' 

"  'Caesar!'  said  he.     'My  dear,  that's  never  Ca?sar.' 

"But  Ca?sar  it  was,  as  they  soon  saw  by  the  way  he  jumped 
and  whined,  and  seemed  to  beg  them  to  understand  he  was  him- 
self. He  was  frightened  out  of  his  wits,  poor  doggie,  for  he  had 
never  felt  so  queer  before,  and  couldn't  understand  what  had 
come  over  him." 

"And  what  had  come  over  him?"  asked  the  children  eagerly. 

"Why,  Master  Hugh  and  Miss  Janet  had  spent  the  morning 
in  cropping  him!"  replied  nurse.  "The  hair,  and  he  had  great 
long  thick  hair,  was  cut  off  as  close  and  as  neat  as  if  it  had  been 
shaved;  it  was  really  wonderful  how  clean  they  had  done  it  without 
cutting  or  wounding  the  poor  doggie.  They  had  taken  great 
pains  about  it,  and  had  spent  the  best  part  of  the  morning  over 
it — the  two  of  them,  Master  Hugie  with  the  great  kitchen  scissors, 
and  Miss  Janet  with  a  wee  fine  pair  she  had  found  in  her  mamma's 


192  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

workbox,  the  little  monkey!  And  such  a  sight  as  the  kitchen 
dresser  was  with  hair !  For  they  told  how  they  had  made  Caesar  jump 
up  on  to  the  dresser  and  lie  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the 
other,  till  all  was  cut  off." 

"Were  they  punished?"  asked  Floss,  anxiously.  And  at  this 
question  Carrots  looked  very  woe-begone. 

"They  were  going  to  be,"  said  nurse,  "but  somehow,  I  cannot 
justly  say  how  it  was,  they  were  let  off.  The  whole  thing  was  such 
a  queer  idea,  their  father  and  mother  could  not  but  laugh 
at  it,  though  they  didn't  let  the  children  see  them.  And  what  do 
you  think  my  lady  did?  She  took  all  poor  Caesar's  hair  and  spun 
it  up  into  worsted  for  knitting,  mixing  it,  of  course,  with  long 
yarn." 

"Did  she  spin?"  asked  Floss.  "I  thought  you  said  she  was 
a  lady." 

"And  that  she  was,  Miss  Flossie,  and  none  the  less  so  for 
being  able  to  spin  and  to  knit,  and  to  cook  too,  I  dare  say," 
said  nurse.  "But  ladies,  and  high  born  ones  too,  in  those  days 
turned  their  hands  to  many  things  they  think  beneath  them  now. 
I  know  Miss  Janet's  mother  would  never  have  thought  of  letting 
any  one  but  herself  wash  up  her  breakfast  and  tea  services.  The 
cups  were  a  sight  to  be  seen,  certainly,  of  such  beautiful  old 
china;  they  were  worth  taking  care  of;  and  that's  how  old  china 
has  been  kept  together.  There  isn't  much  of  what's  in  use  now- 
a-days  will  go  down  to  your  grandchildren,  and  great-grand- 
children, Miss  Flossie,  with  the  smashing  and  dashing  that  goes 
on.  My  lady  had  a  white  wood  bowl  kept  on  purpose,  and  the 
napkin  of  the  finest  damask,  and  a  large  apron  of  fine  holland 
that  she  put  on,  and,  oh  yes,  a  pair  of  embroidered  holland  cuffs 
she  used  to  draw  on  over  her  sleeves  up  to  the  elbow;  and  a 
lady  she  looked,  I  can  assure  you,  rinsing  out  and  drying  her 
beautiful  cups,  with  her  pretty  white  hands!" 

"Did  you  ever  see  her?"  asked  Floss. 

"Yes,  when  she  was  getting  to  be  quite  an  old  lady,  I've 


"CARROTS"  193 

see  her  several  times  when  I've  been  sent  upon  a  message  by 
mother  to  the  house.  For  my  mother  was  a  great  favourite  of 
hers;  I  never  went  there  but  my  lady  would  have  me  in  to  have 
a  piece." 

"A  piece?"  repeated  Floss. 

Nurse  laughed.  "A  slice  of  bread  and  jam,  I  should  say, 
my  dear.  I  forget  that  I'm  far  away  from  the  old  life  when 
I  get  to  talking  of  those  days.  And  to  think  I'm  getting  on  to 
be  quite  an  old  woman  myself;  older  in  some  ways  than  my  lady 
ever  was,  for  my  hair  is  fast  turning  gray,  and  hers  had  never 
a  silver  streak  in  it  to  the  last  day  of  her  life,  and  she  died 
at  eighty-four!" 

Carrots  was  getting  a  little  tired,  for  he  hardly  understood 
all  that  nurse  was  saying.  To  create  a  diversion  he  climbed  up 
on  to  her  knee,  and  began  stroking  her  face. 

"Never  mind,  nursie,"  he  said.  "I'll  always  love  you,  even 
when  your  hair's  kite  gray,  and  I  would  marry  you  if  you  like 
when  I'm  big,  only  I've  promised  to  marry  Floss." 

"Oh  you  funny  little  Carrots,"  said  Floss.  "But  nurse," 
she  went  on,  "what  did  Janet's  mamma  do  with  the  hair  when 
she  had  spun  it?" 

"She  knitted  it  into  a  pair  of  stockings  for  Master  Hughie," 
said  nurse;  "but  they  weren't  much  use.  They  were  well  enough 
to  look  at,  but  no  mortal  boy  could  have  worn  them  without  his 
legs  being  skinned,  they  were  so  pricky." 

"And  what  became  of  Caesar?"  said  Floss.  "Did  his  hair 
ever  grow  again?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  nurse,  "in  time  it  did,  though  I  believe  it 
never  again  looked  quite  so  silky  and  nice.  But  Ca?sar  lived  to 
a  good  old  age,  for  all  that.  He  didn't  catch  cold,  for  my  lady 
made  mother  make  him  a  coat  of  a  bit  of  soft  warm  cloth,  which 
he  wore  for  some  time." 

"How  funny  he  must  have  looked,"  said  Floss. 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  said  a  voice  behind  her,  and 


194  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

turning  round,  Floss  saw  Cecil,  who  had  come  into  the  room 
without  their  hearing  her. 

"About  a  doggie,"  answered  Carrots.  "Oh,  Cis,  nurse  has 
been  telling  us  such  a  lubly  story  about  a  doggie.  Nursie,  dear, 
won't  you  tell  us  another  to-morrow?" 

"My  stories  are  all  worn  out,  my  dear,"  said  nurse,  shaking 
her  head. 

"Couldn't  you  tell  us  one,  Cis?"  said  Carrots. 

"Make  up  one,  do  you  mean?"  said  Cecil.  "No,  indeed,  I'm 
sure  I  never  could.  Are  they  always  at  you  to  tell  them  stories, 
nurse?    If  so,  I  pity  you." 

"Poor  little  things,"  said  nurse,  "  it's  dull  for  them  these 
wet  days,  Miss  Cecil,  and  Master  Carrots'  cold  has  been  bad." 

Cecil  looked  at  her  little  brother's  pale  face  as  he  sat  nestling 
in  nurse's  arms,  and  a  queer  new  feeling  of  compunction 
seized  her. 

"I  couldn't  tell  you  a  story,"  she  said;  "but  if  you  like,  the 
first  afternoon  it's  rainy,  and  you  can't  go  out,  I'll  read  you  one. 
Miss  Barclay  lent  me  a  funny  old-fashioned  little  book  the 
other  day,  and  some  of  the  stories  in  it  are  fairy  ones.  Would 
you  like  that,  Carrots?" 

Floss  clapped  her  hands,  and  Carrots  slid  down  from  nurse's 
knee,  and  coming  quietly  up  to  Cecil,  threw  his  arms  round  her 
neck,  and  gave  her  a  kiss. 

"I  hope  it'll  rain  to-morrow,"  he  said,  gravely. 

"It  is  kind  of  Miss  Cecil,"  said  nurse;  and  as  Cecil  left 
the  nursery  she  added  to  herself,  "it  will  be  a  comfort  to  her 
mother  if  she  begins  to  take  thought  for  the  little  ones,  and  I've 
always  felt  sure  it  was  in  her  to  do  so,  if  only  she  could  get 
into  the  way  of  it." 


"CARROTS"  193 

CHAPTER  VIII 

"the  bewitched  tongue." 

"Thou  wilt  not  fail 
To  listen  to  a  fairy  tale." 

Lewis  Carroll. 

It  did  rain  the  next  day!  And  Cecil  did  not  forget  her 
promise.  Just  as  the  old  nursery  clock  was  striking  four,  a  full 
hour  still  to  her  tea-time,  she  marched  into  the  room  with  a  little 
old  brown  book  in  her  hand.  I  wonder  if  any  of  you  have  ever 
seen  that  little  old  book,  or  one  like  it,  I  should  say?  It  was 
about  the  size  of  the  first  edition  of  "Evenings  at  Home,"  which 
some  of  you  are  sure  to  have  in  your  book-cases.  For  I  should 
think  everybody's  grandfathers  and  grandmothers  had  an  "Eve- 
ning's at  Home"  among  their  few,  dearly-prized  children's  books. 

Do  you  know  how  very  few  those  books  were?  You  may 
have  heard  it,  but  I  scarcely  fancy  you  have  ever  thought  over 
the  great  difference  between  yourselves  and  long-ago-children  in 
this  respect.  Now-a-days,  when  you  have  galloped  through  all 
the  brilliant  blue  and  green  and  scarlet  little  volumes  that  have 
been  given  to  you  on  birthdays  and  Christmas-days,  you  come 
with  a  melancholy  face  to  your  mother,  and  tell  her  you  have 
"nothing  to  read."  And  then,  most  likely,  when  your  mother 
goes  to  the  library,  she  chooses  a  book  for  you  out  of  the  "ju- 
venile department,"  and  when  it  is  done  you  get  another,  till  you 
can  hardly  remember  what  you  have  read  and  what  you  haven't. 
But  as  for  reading  any  book  twice  over,  that  is  never  to  be 
thought  of. 

Not  so  was  it  long  ago.  Not  only  had  no  children  many 
books,  but  everywhere  children  had  the  same.  There  was  seldom 
any  use  in  little  friends  lending  to  each  other,  for  it  was  always 
the  same  thing  over  again:  "Evenings  at  Home,"  "Sandford  and 
Merton,"  "Ornaments  Discovered,"  and  so  on. 

You  think,  I  dare  say,  that  it  must  have  been  very  stupid 


196  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

and  tiresome  to  have  so  little  variety,  but  I  think  you  are  in  some 
ways  mistaken.  Children  really  read  their  books  in  those  days; 
they  put  more  of  themselves  into  their  reading,  so  that,  stupid 
as  these  quaint  old  stories  might  seem  to  you  now-a-days,  they 
never  seemed  so  then.  What  was  wanting  in  them  the  children 
filled  up  out  of  their  own  fresh  hearts  and  fancies,  and  however 
often  they  read  and  re-read  them,  they  always  found  something 
new.  They  got  to  know  the  characters  in  their  favourite  stories 
like  real  friends,  and  would  talk  them  over  with  their  companions, 
and  compare  their  opinions  about  them  in  a  way  that  made  each 
book  as  good,  or  better,  than  a  dozen. 

So  there  is  something  to  be  said  for  this  part  of  the  "ancien 
regime" — if  you  do  not  understand  what  that  means,  you  will 
some  day — after  all! 

The  volume  that  Cecil  Desart  brought  into  the  nursery 
was  called  "Faults  Corrected;  or"  (there  Avas  always  long  ago 
an  "or"  in  the  titles  of  books)  "Beneficent  Influences." 

"Some  of  the  stories  are  stupid,"  said  Cecil,  as  she  sat  down. 
"Miss  Barclay  said  it  was  her  mother's  when  she  was  a  little 
girl,  so  it  must  be  rather  ancient;  but  I  think  I've  found  one 
that  will  amuse  you,  and  that  Carrots  can  understand." 

"What's   it   called?"    said   Floss,   peering    over   her    sister's 

shoulder.     "  'Faults  Corrected;  or,  Ben — ben '  what  word's 

that,  Cecil?" 

"Sit  down,  Floss,  and  be  quiet,  or  I  won't  read  to  you," 
said  Cecil  emphatically.  "That's  the  name  of  the  whole  book 
you  are  looking  at,  and  you  wouldn't  understand  the  word  if 
I  told  it  you.  The  name  of  the  story  I'm  going  to  read  to  you 
is,  'The  Bewitched  Tongue;  or,  Think  Before  You  Speak.'  A 
Fairy  Tale." 

Floss  would  have  liked  to  clap  her  hands,  but  she  was  afraid 
of  another  snub  from  Cecil,  so  she  restrained  her  feelings. 

"When  there  come  very  long  words,"  continued  Cecil — 
"there  often  are  in  old  books — I'll  change  them  to   easy  ones, 


"CARROTS"  197 

so  that  Carrots  may  understand.  Now,  be  quiet  all  of  you, 
I'm  going  to  begin.  'The  Bewitched  Tongue,  etc.'  I'm  not 
going  to  read  all  the  title  again.  'In  a  beautiful  mansion'  (that 
just  means  a  fine  house,  Carrots)  'surrounded  by  pleasure 
grounds  of  great  extent,  there  lived,  many  years  ago,  a  young 
girl  named  Elizabetha.  She  was  of  charming  appearance  and 
pleasing  manners;  her  parents  loved  her  devotedly,  her  brothers 
and  sisters  looked  upon  her  with  amiable  affection,  her  teachers 
found  her  docile  and  intelligent.  Yet  Elizabetha  constantly 
found  herself,  despite  their  affection,  shunned  and  feared  by 
her  best  and  nearest  friends,  and  absolutely  disliked  by  those 
who  did  not  know  her  well  enough  to  feel  assured  of  the  real 
goodness  of  her  heart. 

'This  sad  state  of  things  was  all  owing  to  one  unfortunate 
habit.  She  had  a  hasty  tongue.  Whatever  thought  was  upper- 
most in  her  mind  at  the  moment,  she  expressed  without  reflec- 
tion; she  never  remembered  the  wholesome  adage.  "Think  before 
you  speak,"  or  that  other  excellent  saying,  "Second  thoughts 
are  best." 

'Her  disposition  was  far  from  unamiable  or  malicious,  yet 
the  mischief  of  which  she  was  the  cause  was  indescribable. 
Every  servant  in  the  household  dreaded  to  hear  the  sound  of 
her  voice,  for  many  had  she  involved  in  trouble  and  disgrace; 
and  as  her  temper  was  naturally  quick  and  impetuous,  and  she 
never  attempted  to  check  her  first  expressions  of  provocation, 
small  and  even  trifling  disagreements  were  by  her  foolish  tongue 
exaggerated  into  lasting  discord,  long  after  all  real  cause  of  offence 
had  passed  from  her  mind. 

'  "My  brother  will  not  forgive  me,"  she  confessed  one  day 
to  her  mother,  with  many  tears,  "and  the  quarrel  was  only  that 
he  had  broken  the  vase  of  flowers  that  stand  on  my  table.  I 
forgave  him — I  would  rather  lose  twenty  vases  than  his  affection 
— and  yet  he  will  not  speak  to  me,  and  passes  me  by  with 
indignant  looks." 


198  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

'  "And  did  you  at  once  express  your  forgiveness  to  him, 
Elizabetha?"  said  her  mother.  "When  you  first  discovered  the 
accident,  what  words  escaped  you?" 

'Elizabetha  reflected,  and  presently  her  colour  rose. 

'  "I  fear,  ma'am,"  she  said,  "I  fear  that  at  the  first  sight 
of  the  broken  vase  I  spoke  unguardedly.  I  exclaimed  that 
without  doubt  Adolphus  had  thrown  down  the  ornament  on 
purpose  to  annoy  me,  and  that  I  wished  so  mean-spirited  a  youth 
were  not  my  brother.  My  little  sister  Celia  was  beside  me  at  the 
time — can  she  have  carried  to  him  what  I  said?  I  did  not  really 
mean  that;  my  words  were  but  the  momentary  expression  of 
my  vexation." 

'Her  mother  gravely  shook  her  head. 

'  "It  is  your  own  doing  altogether,  Elizabetha,"  she  said, 
"and  you  cannot  complain  that  your  brother  resents  so  unkind 
and  untrue  a  charge." 

'Elizabeth  burst  into  tears,  but  the  harm  was  done,  and 
it  was  some  time  before  Adolphus  could  forget  the  pain  of 
her  unjust  and  hasty  words. 

'Another  day  her  little  brother  Jacky  had  just  with  great 
pains  and  care  written  out  his  task  for  the  next  morning,  when, 
having  been  called  to  supper,  he  found  on  his  return  to  the 
schoolroom  his  exercise  book  all  blotted  and  disfigured. 

'  "Who  can  have  done  this?"  he  cried  in  distress. 

'Elizabetha  Avas  just  entering  the  room. 

'  "Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  "it  is  Sukey,  the  under-housemaid, 
that  you  have  to  thank  for  that.  I  saw  her  coming  out  of  the 
room,  and  she  had  no  reason  to  enter  it.  Out  of  curiosity  she 
has  been  looking  at  your  books,  and  blotted  your  exercise." 

'Jacky  was  but  eight  years  old,  full  young  for  prudence  or 
reflection.  Downstairs  he  flies,  his  face  inflamed  with  anger, 
and  meeting  the  unfortunate  Sukey  at  the  door  of  the  servants' 
hall,  upbraids  her  in  no  gentle  terms  for  her  impertinence.  In 
vain  the  poor  girl  defends  herself,  and  denies   Master  Jacky's 


"CARROTS"  199 

accusation;  the  other  servants  come  to  the  rescue,  and  the  whole 
household  is  in  an  uproar,  till  suddenly  Miss  Elizabetha  is  named 
as  the  source  of  the  mischief. 

'  "Ah,"  says  the  old  housekeeper,  "do  not  distress  yourself, 
Sukey;  we  all  know  what  Miss  Elizabetha's  tongue  is!" 

'And  thereupon  the  poor  girl  is  freed  from  blame.  She 
had  only  gone  to  the  schoolroom  by  the  desire  of  an  upper 
servant  to  mend  the  fire,  and  the  real  offender  was  discovered 
to  have  been  the  cat! 

'This  affair  coming  to  the  ears  of  Elizabetha's  father,  he 
reproved  her  with  great  severity.  Mortified  and  chagrined,  she.  as 
usual,  Avept  bitterly,  and  ashamed  to  meet  the  cold  looks  of 
the  household,  she  hastened  out  into  the  garden  and  paced  up 
and  down  a  shady  walk,  where  she  imagined  herself  quite  hidden 
from  observation.' " 

"Cis,"  interrupted  Carrots  at  this  point,  "I  don't  under- 
stand the  story." 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  said  Cecil,  "I  didn't  notice  what  a  lot 
of  long  words  there  are.    Shall  I  leave  off?" 

"Z  understand  it,"  said  Floss. 

"Then  read  it  for  Floss,  please,  Cis,"  said  Carrots.  "I'll 
be  kite  still." 

"You're  a  good  little  boy,"  said  Cecil;  "I  suppose  I  may 
as  well  finish  it  as  I  have  begun.  We're  coming  to  the  fairy 
part  now.  Perhaps  you'll  understand  it  better.  Where  was 
I?  Oh  yes,  'imagined  herself  quite  hidden  from  observation. 
But  in  this  she  was  mistaken,  as  my  readers  will  see. 

'She  walked  slowly  up  and  down.  "Oh  my  tongue,  my 
cruel  tognue!"  she  exclaimed.  "What  trouble  it  is  the  cause  of! 
How  can  I  cure  myself  of  my  rash  speech?" 

'  "Do  you  in  all  sincerity  wish  to  cure  yourself,  Elizabetha?" 
said  a  voice  beside  her;  and  turning  in  surprise  at  its  sound, 
the  young  girl  perceived  at  a  few  steps'  distance  a  fair  and 
sweet  looking  lady  clad  in  silvery  white,  adorned  with  wreaths 
of  the  loveliest  flowers. 


200  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

'  "Assuredly  I  do,  gracious  lady,"  replied  Eliza'betha,  mas- 
tering as  well  as  she  was  able  her  surprise,  for  she  felt  that 
this  beautiful  lady  must  be  a  fairy  of  high  degree. 

'  "Then  I  will  help  you,"  said  the  lady,  "but  on  one  con- 
dition, hereafter  to  be  explained.  You  are  content  to  agree  to 
this  beforehand?" 

'  "To  anything,  kind  fairy,"  replied  the  young  girl,  "if  only 
my  unhappy  fault  can  be  cured." 

'The  fairy  smiled.  "Hasty  as  ever,"  she  murmured;  "how- 
ever, in  this  instance,  you  shall  have  no  reason  to  regret  your 
words.     Put  out  your  tongue,  Elizabetha." 

'Trembling  slightly,  the  young  girl  obeyed.  But  her  fears 
were  uncalled  for — the  fairy  merely  touched  the  unruly  member 
with  her  wand  and  whispered  some  words,  the  meaning  of  which 
Elizabetha  could  not  understand. 

'  "Meet  me  here  one  week  hence,"  said  the  fairy,  "till  then 
your  tongue  will  obey  my  commands.  And  if  you  then  feel 
you  have  reason  to  feel  grateful  to  me,  I  will  call  upon  you  to 
redeem  your  promise." 

'And  before  Elizabetha  could  reply,  the  lady  had  disap- 
peared. 

'Full  of  eagerness  and  curiosity,  Elizabetha  returned  to  the 
house.  It  was  growing  dusk,  and  as  she  sped  along  the  garden 
paths  something  ran  suddenly  against  her,  causing  her  to  trip 
and  fall.  As  she  got  up  she  perceived  that  it  was  Fido,  the 
dog  of  her  brother  Adolphus.  The  creature  came  bounding 
up  to  her  again,  full  of  play  and  affection.  But  in  her  fall 
Elizabetha  had  bruised  herself;  she  felt  angry  and  indignant. 

'  "Get  off  with  you,  you  clumsy  wretch,"  she  exclaimed, 
or  meant  to  exclaim.  But  to  her  amazement  the  words  that 
issued  from  her  mouth  were  quite  otherwise. 

'  "Gently,  gently,  my  poor  Fido.  Thou  didst  not  mean 
to  knock  me  down,  however,"  she  said  in  a  kind  and  caressing 
tone,  which  the  dog  at  once  obeyed. 


"CARROTS"  201 

'Hardly  knowing  whether  she  were  awake  or  dreaming, 
Elizabetha  entered  the  house.     She  was  met  by  her  sister  Maria. 

'  "Where  have  you  been,  Elizabetha?"  she  inquired.  "Your 
friends  the  Misses  Larkyn  have  been  here,  but  no  one  could 
find  you,  so  they  have  gone." 

'Elizabetha  felt  extremely  annoyed.  She  had  not  seen  her 
friends  for  some  weeks,  and  had  much  wished  for  a  visit  from 
them. 

'  "I  think  it  was  most  ill-natured  of  none  of  you  to  look 
for  me  in  the  garden.  You  might  have  known  I  was  there 
if  you  had  cared  to  oblige  me,"  were  the  words  she  intended 
to  say,  but  instead  of  which  were  heard  the  following: 

'  "I  thank  you,  my  dear  Maria.  I  am  sorry  to  have  missed 
my  friends,  but  it  cannot  be  helped." 

'And  when  Maria,  pleased  by  her  gentleness,  went  on  to 
tell  her  that,  knowing  that  her  disappointment  would  be  great, 
and  as  the  Misses  Larkyn  had  been  too  pressed  for  time  to 
linger,  she  had  arranged  to  walk  with  Elizabetha  the  following 
day  to  see  them,  how  rejoiced  was  Elizabetha  that  her  intended 
words  of  unkindness  had  not  been  uttered !  "Kind  fairy,  I  thank 
thee!"  she  whispered  to  herself. 

'The  following  day  the  same  state  of  things  continued. 
Many  times  before  its  close  did  Elizabetha's  hasty  temper  en- 
deavour to  express  itself  in  rash  speech,  but  each  time  the  tongue 
remained  faithful  to  its  new  mistress.  Whenever  Elizabetha 
attempted  to  speak  hastily,  the  words  that  issued  from  her 
lips  were  exactly  the  opposite  of  those  she  had  intended  to  utter; 
and  as  her  real  disposition  was  amiable  and  good,  not  once  did 
she  regret  the  metamorphosis. 

'Her  parents,  her  brothers  and  sisters,  and  even  the  servants 
of  the  family,  were  amazed  and  delighted  at  the  change. 

'  "Go  on  as  thou  hast  begun,  my  child,"  said  her  father, 
on  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which  Elizabetha  was  again  to 


202  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

meet  the  fairy,  "and  soon  the  name  of  Elizabetha  will  be  asso- 
ciated with  gentleness  and  discretion  in  speech  as  in  deed." 

'Elizabetha  blushed.  She  would  have  liked  to  confess  that 
the  credit  of  the  improvement  was  not  her  own;  but  a  moment's 
reflection  reminded  her  that  she  had  not  received  permission  to 
divulge  the  secret,  and  kissing  affectionately  her  father's  hand, 
she  thanked  him  for  his  encouragement. 

'At  the  appointed  hour  she  was  on  the  spot,  awaiting  the 
fairy,  who  soon  appeared.  A  benignant  smile  overspread  her 
features. 

'  "Well,  Elizabetha,"  she  said,  "and  hast  thou  found  that  I 
have  deserved  thy  gratitude?" 

'  "Kind  fairy,"  cried  the  young  girl,  "I  cannot  thank  thee 
enough.  Ask  of  me  what  thou  wilt,  I  shall  be  only  too  ready 
to  perform  it." 

'The  fairy  smiled.  "My  condition  is  a  very  simple  one," 
she  said.  "It  is  only  this.  Whenever,  Elizabetha,  you  feel  your- 
self in  the  least  degree  discomposed  or  out  of  temper,  utter  no 
word  till  you  have  mentally  counted  the  magic  number  seven. 
And  if  you  follow  this  rule,  it  will  be  but  seldom  that  your 
tongue,  of  which  I  now  restore  to  you  the  full  control"  (she 
touched  it  again  with  her  wand  as  she  spoke)  "will  lead  you  into 
trouble.  Your  disposition,  though  generous,  is  naturally  hasty 
and  impulsive,  and  till  by  a  long  course  of  self-restraint  you 
have  acquired  complete  mastery  over  yourself,  you  will  find 
that  I  was  right  in  my  experiment  of  obliging  your  tongue  to 
utter  the  exact  opposite  of  what  you,  in  your  first  haste,  would 
have  expressed." 

'And  before   Elizabetha  could  reply,   she  had  disappeared. 

'But  Elizabetha  kept  her  promise,  and  to  thus  following 
her  fairy  friend's  advice  she  owes  it  that  she  is  now  the  object 
of  universal  esteem  and  affection,  instead  of  being  hated,  de- 
spised, and  feared  as  the  owner  of  "a  hasty  tongue." ' " 

Cecil    stopped. 


"CARROTS"  208 

"Is  that  all?"  said  Carrots. 

"Yes,  that's  all.    Did  you  like  it?" 

"I  did  understand  better  about  the  fairy,"  Carrots  replied. 
"I  think  she  was  a  werry  good  fairy;  don't  you,  Floss?" 

"Very"  said  Floss.  "I  think,"  she  went  on,  "whenever  I 
am  cross,  I  shall  fancy  my  tongue  is  bewitched,  just  to  see  if 
it  would  be  best  to  say  the  opposite  of  what  I  was  going  to  say. 
Wouldn't  it  be  fun?" 

"Better  than  fun,  perhaps,  Miss  Flossie,"  said  nurse.  "I 
think  it  would  be  a  very  good  thing  if  big  people,  too,  were 
sometimes  to  follow  the  fairy's  rule." 

"People  as  big  as  you,  nursie?"  asked  Carrots. 

"Oh,  yes,  my  dear,"  said  nurse.  "It's  a  lesson  we're  all 
slow  to  learn,  and  many  haven't  learnt  it  by  the  end  of  their 
threescore  years  and  ten — 'to  be  slow  to  anger,'  and  to  keep  our 
tongues  from  evil." 

"That's  out  of  the  Bible,  nursie,  all  of  it,"  said  Floss,  as 
if  not  altogether  sure  that  she  approved  of  the  quotation. 

Cecil  laughed. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at,  Cis?"  said  Floss.  "It  is  out  of 
the  Bible." 

"Well,  no  one  said  it  wasn't,"  said  Cecil. 

"Cis,"  said  Carrots,  "will  you  read  us  another  story,  another 
day?" 

"If  I  can  find  one  that  you  can  understand,"  said  Cecil. 

"Never  mind  if  I  can't,"  replied  Carrots.  "I  like  to  hear 
you  reading,  even  if  I  can't  understand.  I  like  your  voice.  I 
think,"  he  added  after  a  pause,  "I  think,  Cis,  I'll  marry  you  too, 
when  I'm  big.     You  and  Floss,  and  nurse." 

So  Cecil  had  good  reason  to  feel  that  she  vr&s  greatly 
appreciated  in  the  nursery. 


204  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 


CHAPTER    IX 

SYBIL 

"The  children  crowned  themselves  with  wishes, 
And  every  wish  came  true." 

Crowns  for  Children. 

But  it  is  not  always,  or  even  often,  that  wishes  "come 
true,"  is  it  children?  Or  if  they  do  come  true,  it  is  in  a  different 
way;  so  different  that  they  hardly  seem  the  same.  Like  the 
little  old  woman  in  the  ballad,  who  turned  herself  about  and 
wondered  and  puzzled,  but  couldn't  make  out  if  she  was  herself 
or  not,  we  stare  at  our  fulfilled  wishes  and  examine  them  on 
every  side  but  in  their  altered  dress — so  different  from,  and, 
very  seldom,  if  ever,  as  pretty  as  that  which  they  wore  in  our 
imagination — we   cannot   believe   that   they   are   themselves! 

Do  you  remember  the  fancies  that  Carrots  and  Floss  used  to 
have  about  their  cousin  Sybil,  and  how  they  wished  for  her  to 
come  to  see  them?  Well,  about  a  fortnight  after  the  affair  of 
the  lost  half-sovereign,  Sybil  actually  did  come  to  see  them! 
She  and  her  mamma.  But  it  all  happened  quite  differently 
from  the  way  the  children  had  planned  it,  so  that  just  at  first 
they  could  hardly  believe  it  was  "a  wish  come  true,"  though 
afterwards,  when  it  was  over,  and  they  began  to  look  back  to  it 
as  a  real  thing  instead  of  forward  to  it  as  a  fancy,  they  grew 
to  think  it  had  really  turned  out  nicer  than  any  of  their  fancies. 

You  would  like  to  hear  all  about  it,  I  dare  say. 

It  took  them  all  by  surprise — this  sudden  visit  of  Sybil  and 
her  mother,  I  mean.  There  was  no  time  for  planning  or  ar- 
ranging anything.  There  just  came  a  telegram  one  afternoon, 
to  say  that  Mrs. — no,  I  don't  think  I  will  tell  you  the  name  of 
Sybil's  mother,  I  want  you  just  to  think  of  her  as  "auntie" — 
and  her  little  girl  would  arrive  at  Sandyshore,  late  that  same 
evening,  "to  stay  one  day,"  said  the  telegram,  on  their  way  to 
some  other  Dlace.  it  does  not  matter  where. 


"CARROTS"  205 

It  was  several  years  since  Captain  Desart  had  seen  his  sister 
— that  is,  "auntie."  He  had  been  abroad  at  the  time  of  her 
marriage,  for  she  was  a  good  many  years  younger  than  he,  and 
since  then,  she  and  her  husband  had  been  a  great  deal  out  of 
England.  But  now  at  last  they  were  going  to  have  a  settled 
home,  and  though  it  was  a  good  way  from  Sandyshore,  still  it 
was  not  like  being  in  another  country. 

"I  am  sorry  Florence  can  only  stay  one  day,"  said  Mrs. 
Desart  to  her  husband;  "it  seems  hardly  worth  while  for  her 
to  come  so  far  out  of  her  way  for  so  short  a  time." 

"I  am  sorry  too,"  said  Captain  Desart;  "but  a  day's  better 
than   nothing." 

Floss  and  Carrots  were  sorry  too — but  what  they  were 
most  sorry  for  was  not  that  Sybil  and  her  mamma  were  only 
going  to  stay  there  one  day,  it  was  that  they  would  not  arrive  till 
after  the  children's  bedtime!  So  much  after  that  there  could  not 
even  be  a  question  of  their  "sitting  up  till  they  come."  There 
was  even  a  doubt  of  Cecil  and  Louise  doing  so,  and  Floss  could 
not  help  feeling  rather  pleased  at  Mott's  getting  a  decided  snub 
from  his  father  when  he  broached  the  subject  on  his  own  account. 

"Sit  up  till  after  ten  o'clock — nonsense.  Nobody  wants 
you.     Go  to  bed  as  usual,  of  course,"  said  Captain  Desart. 

"How  tired  that  poor  little  girl  will  be!"  said  Mrs.  Desart 
pityingly.  "Children,  you  must  all  be  quiet  in  the  morning  so 
as  not  to  wake  her  early.  And  you  must  be  very  gentle  and 
kind  to  her,  for  you  know  she  is  not  accustomed  to  companions."" 

"Yes,  mamma,"  said  Floss  and  Carrots  promptly.  Mott 
said  nothing,  for,  of  course,  the  speech  could  not  have  been 
addressed  to  Mm.  Mr.  Maurice  Desart,  nearly  thirteen  years 
old,  could  not  be  supposed  to  be  a  companion  to  a  mite  of  a 
girl  of  six. 

"It  won't  be  difficult  to  be  quiet  to-morrow  morning,"  said 
Floss  to  Carrots,  "for  I  expect  I  shall  be  very  sleepy,  as  I  have 


206  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLES  WORTH 

quite  made  up  my  mind  to  stay  awake  to-night,  till  I  hear  them 
come." 

It  was  then  eight  o'clock,  and  Floss  was  going  to  bed. 
Carrots  had  been  in  bed  nearly  an  hour,  but  was  not  yet  asleep. 
He  soon  dropped  off,  however,  and  how  long  do  you  think  Floss 
kept  awake?  Till  twenty-three  minutes  past  eight,  or  not  so 
late  probably,  for  that  was  the  time  by  the  nursery  clock,  when 
nurse  came  in  to  see  that  her  charges  were  tucked  up  for  the 
night,  and  found  them  both  fast  asleep! 

They  were  in  a  state  of  great  expectation  the  next  morning 
when  they  were  being  dressed,  but  they  remembered  their  prom- 
ise and  were  very  quiet. 

"When  shall  we  see  Sybil?"  asked  Carrots;  "Will  she  have 
breakfast  in  the  nursery?" 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Floss,  "she  won't  be  up  for  ever  so 
Jong.  I  dare  say." 

"Poor  little  thing,  she  must  be  very  tired,"  said  nurse. 

"Did  you  see  her  last  night?"  asked  Floss  eagerly. 

Nurse  shook  her  head.  "It  was  past  ten  when  they  ar- 
rived," she  said,  "the  little  lady  was  put  to  bed  at  once,  your 
mamma  and  sisters  only  saw  her  for  a  minute." 

So  Floss  and  Carrots  ate  their  bread  and  milk  in  undimin- 
ished curiosity.  Not  long  afterwards  the  bell  rang  for  prayers 
in  the  dining-room  as  usual,  and  the  two,  hand  in  hand,  went  in 
to  take  their  places  among  the  others. 

They  were  rather  late,  Captain  Desart  had  the  Prayer 
Book  and  Bible  open  before  him,  and  was  looking  impatient, 
so  Floss  and  Carrots  sat  down  on  their  little  chairs  and  left 
"good-mornings"  till  after  prayers.  There  was  a  strange  lady 
beside  their  mother,  and,  yes,  beside  the  strange  lady  a  strange 
little  girl!  Was  that  Sybil?  Where  was  the  fair-haired,  blue- 
eyed,  waxen,  doll-like  Sybil,  they  had  expected  to  see? 

What  they  did  see  was  worth  looking  at,  however.  It  was 
a  very  pretty  Sybil  after  all.     Small  and  dark,  dark-eyed,  dark- 


"CARROTS"  207 

haired,  and  browny-red  as  to  complexion.  Sybil  was  more  like 
a  gipsy  than  an  angel  as  they  had  fancied  her.  She  had  very 
pretty,  very  bright,  noticing  eyes  and  she  was  pretty  altogether. 
She  was  dressed  in  black  velvet  with  a  bright  crimson  sash, 
and  her  hair  was  tied  with  crimson  ribbon;  her  neat  little  legs 
were  clothed  in  black  silk  stockings,  and  there  were  buckles  on 
her  tiny  shoes. 

Floss  and  Carrots  hardly, dared  to  stare  at  her,  for  her  eyes 
seemed  to  be  noticing  them  all  over,  and  when  prayers  were  fin- 
ished, and  their  mamma  called  them  to  come  to  speak  to  their 
aunt  and  cousin,  do  you  know  they  actually  both  felt  quite  shy 
of  Sybil,  small  as  she  was?  More  shy  of  her  than  of  their  aunt, 
somehow;  she  seemed  more  like  what  they  had  expected,  or, 
perhaps,  the  truth  was  they  had  "expected"  much  less  about  her. 
Besides  no  children  ever  were  shy  with  auntie,  such  a  thing  would 
have  been  impossible. 

They  kissed  Sybil,  Floss  feeling  very  tall  and  lanky  beside 
her  compact  tiny  cousin,  and  Carrots  feeling  I  don't  know 
how.  He  just  looked  at  Sybil  with  his  soft  wondering  brown 
eyes,  in  such  a  solemn  way  that  at  last  she  burst  out  laughing. 

"What  a  funny  boy  you  are!"  she  exclaimed.  "Mother 
dear,  isn't  he  a  funny  boy?" 

"Aren't  you  very  tired,  Sybil?"  said  Floss,  afraid  that  she 
would  be  laughed  at  as  "a  funny  girl,"  next. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Sybil,  quite  grave,  and  like  a  grown- 
up person,  all  in  a  minute.  "I'm  becustorned  to  travelling.  I'm 
not  tired  at  all,  but  I'll  tell  you  what  I  am — I'm,"  and  out 
broke  her  merry  laugh  again,  "I'm  very  hungry." 

"That's  a  broad  hint,"  said  Captain  Desart,  laughing  too. 
'Florence,  your  daughter  is  ready  for  breakfast,  do  you  hear? 
Where  will  you  sit,  Miss  Sybil?    Besides  your  old  uncle,  eh?" 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  replied  Sybil,  "if  you  won't  call  me 
Miss  Sybil,  please.     And  may  this  little  boy  sit  'aside  me?" 

"This  little  boy  and  this  little  girl  have  had  their  breakfast," 


208  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

said  Mrs.  Desart.  "Run  off,  Carrots  and  Floss,  you  are  both 
to  have  a  whole  holiday  you  know,  so  Sybil  will  see  plenty  of 
you." 

"I  wish  they  could  see  more  of  each  other,"  said  auntie,  as 
the  children  left  the  room.  "Sometime  you  must  let  them 
both  come  and  pay  us  a  long  visit,  when  we  are  really  settled 
you  know." 

Auntie  gave  a  little  sigh  as  she  said  this — she  felt  so  tender 
and  kind  to  Carrots  and  Floss,  and  something  made  her  a  little 
sorry  for  them.  Though  they  were  healthy,  happy-looking  chil- 
dren, and  their  dress  was  neat  and  cared  for,  they  did  not  look 
like  her  Sybil,  whose  clothes  were  always  like  those  of  a  little 
princess.  Floss's  frock  was  rather  faded-looking,  and  there  was 
a  mark  where  it  had  been  let  down,  and  Carrots'  brown  holland 
blouse  had  arrived  at  a  very  whitey-brown  shade,  through  much 
wear  and  washing. 

"It  must  be  hard  work  with  so  many  children,  and  such 
small  means,"  she  thought  to  herself,  for  auntie  had  been  married 
young  to  a  rich  man,  and  knew  little  of  "making  both  ends 
meet";  but  aloud  she  only  said,  "how  lovely  little  Fabian  would 
look  in  black  velvet,  Lucy!    What  a  complexion  he  has!" 

"Yes,  if  you  can  forgive  him  his  hair,"  said  Mrs.  Desart. 

"I  think  his  hair  is  beautiful,"  observed  Sybil  and  then  went 
on  eating  her  breakfast. 

They  all  laughed,  but  there  was  still  a  little  sigh  at  the 
bottom  of  auntie's  heart.  There  was  reason  for  it  greater  than 
the  sight  of  her  little  nephew's  and  niece's  shabby  clothes. 

But  there  was  no  sigh  in  the  hearts  of  Floss  and  Carrots. 

"Carrots,"  said  Floss,  as  they  made  their  way  to  the  nursery 
to  decide  which  of  their  small  collection  of  toys  were  fit  for 
Sybil's  inspection,  "Carrots,  did  you  hear?" 

"What  auntie  said?"  asked  Carrots.  "Yes,  I  heard.  Do 
you  think  mamma  will  ever  let  us  go?" 

"Some  day,  perhaps,"  said  Floss,  and  oh,  what  dreams  and 


"CARROTS"  209 

plans  and  fancies  hung  on  that  "perhaps"!  "Fancy,  Carrots, 
we  should  go  in  the  railway,  you  and  me,  Carrots,  alone  perhaps." 

"Oh,  Floss!"  said  Carrots,  his  feelings  being  beyond  further 
expression. 

That  "some  day"  was  a  good  way  off,  however,  but  "to-day" 
was  here,  and  a  nice  bright-looking  to-day  it  was.  How  happy 
they  were!     How  happy  Sybil  was! 

For,  somehow,  though  she  was  dressed  like  a  princess, 
though  since  babyhood  she  had  had  everything  a  child  could  wish 
for,  though  very  often,  I  must  confess,  she  had  had  "her  own 
way,"  a  good  deal  more  than  would  have  been  good  for  most 
children,  little  Sybil  was  not  spoilt.  The  spoiling  dropped  off 
her  like  water  down  a  duck's  back,  and  auntie  never  found  out 
it  had  been  there  at  all!  Perhaps  after  all  there  is  a  kind  of 
spoiling  that  isn't  spoiling — love  and  kindness,  and  even  in- 
dulgence, do  not  spoil  when  there  is  perfect  trust  and  openness, 
and  when  a  child  at  the  same  time  is  taught  the  one  great  lesson, 
that  the  best  happiness  is  trying  to  make  others  happy  too. 

They  played  on  the  sands  nearly  all  day,  and  Sybil,  to  her 
great  delight,  was  covered  up  from  damage  by  one  of  Carrots' 
blouses.  The  sun  came  out  bright  and  warm,  and  they  built 
the  most  lovely  sand  house  you  ever  saw. 

"I'd  like  to  live  in  it  always,"  said  Carrots. 

"Oh,  you  funny  boy,"  said  Sybil  patronisingly,  "and  what 
would  you  do  at  night,  when  it  got  cold,  and  perhaps  the  sea 
would  come  in." 

"Perhaps  the  mermaids  would  take  care  of  him  till  the 
morning,"  said  Floss. 

"What  are  the  mermaids?"  asked   Sybil. 

"Pretty  ladies,"  said  Carrots,  "who  live  at  the  bottom  of 
the  sea,  only  they've  got  tails." 

"Then  they  can't  be  pretty,"  said  Sybil  decidedly,  "not  un- 
less their  tails  are  beautiful  and  sweeping  out,  like  peacocks! 
Are  they? — One  day  I  tied  a  shawl  of  mother's  on,  it  was  a  red 


210  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

and  gold  shawl,  and  I  sweeped  it  about  just  like  a  peacock, — 
that  mould  be  pretty." 

"I  don't  think  mermaids'  tails  are  like  that,"  said  Carrots, 
doubtfully,  "but  they  are  pretty  ladies,  aren't  they,  Floss?" 

"Beautiful,"  said  Floss,  "but  they're  very  sad.  They  come 
up  to  the  shore  at  night  and  comb  their  hair  and  cry  dreadfully." 

"What  do  they  cry  for?"  asked  Sybil  and  Carrots,  pressing 
up  to  Floss,  and  forgetting  all  about  the  lovely  sand  house. 

"Because  they — no,  you  couldn't  understand,"  she  broke 
off;  "it  is  no  good  telling  you." 

"Oh,  do  tell,"  said  the  children. 

"Well,"  said  Floss,  "I  read  in  a  book  of  Cecil's,  they  cry  be- 
cause they  haven't  got  any  souls.  When  they  die  they  can't  go  to 
heaven,  you  see." 

Sybil  and  Carrots  looked  very  solemn  at  this.  Then  a 
sudden  thought  struck  Carrots. 

"How  can  they  cry  if  they  haven't  got  souls,  Floss?"  he 
said,  "Nurse  says  it's  our  souls  that  make  us  glad  and  sorry. 
Are  you  sure  the  poor  mermaids  haven't  got  souls?" 

"I'm  only  telling  you  what  I  read  in  a  book,"  said  Floss. 
"I  dare  say  it's  all  a  sort  of  fairy  tale.  Don't  you  like  fairy 
tales,  Sybil?" 

"No,"  said  Sybil,  "I  like  stories  of  naughty  boys  and  girls 
best — very  naughty  boys  and  girls." 

"Oh,  Sybil!"  said  Carrots,  "I  don't,  because  they  are  always 
unhappy  in  the  end." 

"No,  they're  not.  Sometimes  they  all  get  good.  Mother 
always  makes  them  get  good  at  the  end,"  replied  Sybil. 

"Does  auntie  tell  you  stories?"  said  Floss. 

"Yes,  of  course,  for  I  can't  read  them  to  myself  yet.  I'm 
learning,  but  it  is  so  hard,"  said  Sybil  dolefully. 

"I  wish  auntie  would  tell  us  stories." 

"P'raps  she  will  when  you  come  to  my  house,"  said  Sybil, 
encouragingly.     "Would  you  think  that  a  treat?" 


"CARROTS"  211 

"It  would  be  a  'normous  treat." 

"We're  going  to  have  a  treat  to-day,"  said  Floss.  "We're 
going  to  have  tea  in  the  dining-room  with  you,  Sybil,  and  auntie 
and  everybody,  and  I  think  it's  time  to  go  in  now,  because  we 
must  change  our  frocks." 

Carrots  had  never  had  tea  in  the  dining-room  before,  and 
felt  a  little  overpowered  by  the  honour.  He  sat  very  still,  and 
took  whatever  was  offered  to  him,  as  nurse  had  taught  him.  Cecil 
poured  out  the  tea,  and  to  please  the  children  she  put  an  extra 
allowance  of  sugar  into  their  cups.  Carrots  tasted  his,  and  was 
just  thinking  how  very  nice  it  was,  when  it  flashed  across  his 
mind  that  he  should  not  have  had  any  sugar.  He  put  down 
his  cup  and  looked  round  him  in  great  perplexity.  If  only  he 
could  ask  Floss.  But  Floss  was  at  the  other  side  of  the  table, 
she  seemed  to  be  drinking  her  tea  without  any  misgiving.  Wasn't 
it  naughty?  Could  she  have  forgotten?  Carrots  grew  more 
and  more  unhappy;  the  tears  filled  his  eyes,  and  his  face  got 
scarlet. 

"What's  the  matter,  dear?"  said  auntie,  who  was  sitting  next 
him,  "Is  your  tea  too  hot?  Has  it  scalded  your  poor  little 
mouth?" 

She  said  it  in  a  low  voice.  She  was  so  kind  and  "under- 
standing," she  knew  Carrots  would  not  have  liked  everybody 
round  the  table  to  begin  noticing  him,  and  as  she  looked  at  him 
more  closely,  she  saw  that  the  tears  in  his  eyes  were  those  of 
distress,  not  of  "scalding." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Carrots,  looking  up  in  auntie's  face 
in  his  perplexity;  "it  isn't  that.  My  tea  is  werry  good,  but  it's 
got  sugar  in." 

"And  you  don't  like  sugar?  Poor  old  man!  Never  mind, 
Cecil  will  give  you  another  cup.  You're  not  like  Sybil  in  your 
tastes,"  said  auntie,  kindly,  and  she  turned  to  ask  Cecil  for 
some  sugarless  tea  for  her  little  brother. 

"No,  no,  auntie.     Oh,  please  don't,"  whispered  Carrots,  his 


212  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

trouble  increasing,  and  pulling  hard  at  his  aunt's  sleeve  as  he 
spoke,  "I  do  like  sugar  werry  much — it  isn't  that.  But  mamma 
said  I  was  never,  never  to  take  nucken  that  wasn't  mine,  and 
sugar  won't  be  mine  for  two  weeks  more,  nurse  says." 

Auntie  stared  at  her  little  nephew  in  blank  bewilderment. 
What  did  he  mean?     Even  her  quick  wits  were  quite  at  fault. 

"What  do  you  mean,  my  dear  little  boy?"  she  said. 

Suddenly  a  new  complication  struck  poor  Carrots. 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed,  "it's  a  secret,  it's  a  secret,  and  I'm  tell- 
ing it,"  and  he  burst  into  tears. 

It  was  impossible  now  to  hide  his  trouble.  Everybody  began 
to  cross-question  him. 

"Cry-baby,"  muttered  Maurice,  and  even  Mrs.  Desart  said, 
"Carrots,  I  wonder  at  your  behaving  so  when  your  aunt  and 
cousin  are  here.  Floss,  do  you  know  what  is  the  matter  with 
him?" 

"No,  mamma,"  said  Floss,  looking  as  she  always  did  when 
Carrots  was  in  distress,  ready  to  cry  herself. 

"Carrots,"  said  Captain  Desart,  sharply,  "go  to  the  nursery 
till  you  learn  to  behave  properly." 

Carrots  got  slowly  down  off  his  high  chair,  and  crept  away. 
But  everybody  looked  troubled  and  uncomfortable. 

Auntie  hated  to  see  people  looking  troubled  and  uncom- 
fortable. She  thought  a  minute,  and  then  she  turned  to  Mrs. 
Desart. 

"Lucy,"  she  said,  "will  you  let  me  try  what  I  can  do  with 
the  poor  little  fellow?  I  am  sure  it  was  not  naughtiness  made 
him  cry." 

And  almost  before  Mrs.  Desart  could  reply,  auntie  was 
off  to  the  nursery  in  search  of  Carrots. 

He  had  left  off  crying,  and  was  sitting  quietly  by  the  win- 
dow, looking  out  at  his  old  friend  the  sea. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about,  my  poor  old  man?"  said 
auntie,  fondly. 


"CARROTS"  213 

Carrots  looked  up  at  her.  "I  like  you  to  call  me  that," 
he  said.  "I  was  thinking  about  our  hoops  and  what  a  long  time 
four  weeks  is." 

"Has  that  to  do  with  you  having  no  sugar?"  asked  auntie. 

"Yes,"  said  Carrots.  "How  did  you  guess?  You're  like 
a  fairy,  auntie."  But  then  his  face  grew  troubled  again.  "I 
forgot,"  he  went  on,  "it's  a  secret.  It's  Floss's  secret  too.  I 
would  so  like  to  tell  you,  for  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I  don't 
mind  having  no  tea,  but  they  all  thought  I  was  naughty." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  auntie.  She  hurried  out  of  the  room, 
but  was  back  in  a  minute. 

"I've  asked  Floss,"  she  said,  "and  she  gives  you  leave  to 
tell  me.  So  now,  perhaps,  when  I  know  all  about  it,  I  can  tell 
you  what  to  do." 

The  telling  did  not  take  Carrots  long;  he  was  so  glad  to 
show  auntie  he  had  not  meant  to  be  naughty.  Auntie  listened 
quite  gravely,  and  when  he  had  finished  she  said  she  thought  he 
was  quite  right  not  to  take  any  sugar. 

"But  do  you  think  Floss  did?"  said  Carrots,  anxiously. 

"Perhaps  having  tea  in  the  dining-room  made  her  forget," 
said  auntie.  "We'll  ask  her  afterwards,  and  if  she  did  forget, 
I'll  tell  you  what  she  must  do.  She  must  go  without  one  day 
longer  than  you.  Now  come  along  with  me,  and  I'll  make  it 
all  right,  you'll  see." 

When  they  got  back  to  the  dining-room  auntie  quietly  lifted 
Carrots  onto  his  chair  again,  and  said  to  his  mamma  with  a 
smile,  "It  was  all  a  mistake;  I  thought  it  was;  Carrots  was  not 
naughty  at  all,  and  he  is  quite  happy  again  now." 

And  Mrs.  Desart  smiled  too,  so  Carrots  really  did  feel 
happy  again.  But  he  wondered  what  auntie  would  do  about  the 
tea,  which  was  still  standing  there  as  he  had  left  it,  and  it  would 
be  wrong  to  "waste"  it,  thought  Carrots. 

Sybil  was  sitting  on  auntie's  other  side,  and  auntie  glancing 


214  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

at  her  cup  saw  that  it  was  empty.  So  auntie  quietly  put  Carrots' 
cup  before  Sybil  and  gave  Carrots  the  empty  one. 

"Cecil,"  she  said,  "will  you  give  Carrots  some  tea  without 
any  sugar?" 

Cecil  saw  that  auntie  had  some  reason  for  asking  this,  so 
she  gave  Carrots  the  tea  as  auntie  said,  and  Carrots  drank  it 
and  ate  his  bread  and  butter  and  a  piece  of  cake,  with  great 
content. 

The  only  person  who  did  not  seem  quite  contented  was 
Sybil. 

"Mother,"  she  whispered,  "I  don't  like  having  Carrots'  tea. 
It's  quite  cold." 

But  as  Carrots  didn't  hear  it,  it  didn't  much  matter.  For 
you  see,  Sybil  had  had  one  cup  of  nice  hot  tea,  so  she  was  not 
so  badly  off  after  all. 

And,  alas!  the  very  next  morning  auntie  and  Sybil  had  to 
go  away.  And  the  long-talked-of  and  fancied-a'bout  visit  was 
over. 


CHAPTER  X 

A    JOURNEY   AND   ITS   ENDING 

"The  way  was  long,  the  wind  was  cold." 

Soon  after  auntie's  visit  summer  really  began  to  come.  It 
was  very  pleasant  while  it  lasted,  but  this  year  it  was  a  very 
short  summer,  and  the  winter  that  came  after  was  a  very  severe 
one,  and  made  many  people  ill.  It  did  not  make  Carrots  ill,  nor 
Floss,  nor  any  of  the  Desart  children,  for  they  were  all  strong, 
but  it  was  very  bad  for  their  mother.  As  the  winter  went  on,  she 
seemed  to  get  weaker  and  weaker;  there  were  very  few  days  on 
which  she  could  go  out,  and  if  the  spring  had  not  been  an  early 
and  very  mild  one  I  hardly  think  her  strength  would  have  lasted. 

But  with  the  finer  weather  she  seemed  to  get  better  again. 


"CARROTS"  215 

The  children  were  of  course  very  glad,  but  still  they  had  not 
felt  frightened  by  her  illness.  It  had  come  on  so  slowly  and 
gradually  that  they  had  got  accustomed  to  it,  as  children  do. 
They  thought  it  was  just  the  cold  wintry  weather  that  had 
made  her  ill,  and  that  when  the  spring  came  she  would  get 
better.  And  when  the  spring  came  and  she  did  get  better,  they 
were  perfectly  satisfied  and  happy. 

By  the  end  of  this  summer  Carrots  Avas  seven  years  old — 
no  longer  in  the  least  a  baby,  though  he  was  not  tall  for  his 
age.  He  could  read,  of  course,  perfectly,  and  write  a  little. 
Now  and  then  he  wrote  little  letters  to  Sybil  in  answer  to  hers, 
for  she  was  very  particular  about  getting  answers.  She  was 
only  just  beginning  to  leam  to  write,  and  sometimes  when  she 
got  tired  of  working  away  at  real  "A's"  and  "B's"  and  "C's" 
in  her  letters,  she  would  dash  off  into  a  lot  of  "scribble,"  which 
she  said  was  "children's  writing,"  and  "if  Carrots  didn't  know 
what  it  meant  he  must  be  very  stupid,  as  he  was  a  child  too." 

Carrots  didn't  know  what  it  meant,  but  he  never  liked  to 
say  so,  and  I  dare  say  it  did  not  much  matter.  But  his  letters 
to  Sybil  were  quite  real.    Any  one  could  have  understood  them. 

Long  ago  Floss  and  he  had  bought  their  hoops.  They 
were  quite  "old  friends"  now.  They  had  bought  them  at  the 
toy-shop,  just  as  they  had  planned,  and,  curiously  enough  when 
their  mamma  and  nurse  counted  up  how  much  was  owing  to 
them  for  the  sugar,  it  came  to  exactly  the  price  of  the  hoops. 

But  I  must  tell  you  what  happened  just  about  the  time 
Carrots  had  his  seventh  birthday.  The  summer  was  nearly 
over  again,  and  already  the  cold  winds,  of  which  there  were 
so  many  at  Sandyshore,  were  beginning  to  be  felt.  Floss  noticed 
that  her  mother  very  seldom  went  out  now,  and  even  in  the  house 
she  generally  had  to  wrap  herself  up  in  a  shawl. 

"Mamma,  I  hope  the  cold  weather  isn't  going  to  make  you 
ill  again?"  Floss  said,  one  day  When  she  and  Carrots  came  in 
from  a  race  on  the  sands,  all  hot  and  rosy  with  running. 


216  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"I  don't  know,  dear,"  said  her  mother  with  a  little  sigh. 

"I  wish  you  could  run  about  like  us.  That  would  make 
you  so  hot,"  said  Carrots. 

Mrs.  Desart  smiled.  Just  then  her  glance  happened  to 
fall  on  Floss's  boots.  "My  dear  child,"  she  said,  "those  boots  are 
really  not  fit  to  go  out  with.  There's  a  great  hole  at  the  side 
of  one  of  them." 

"I  know,  mamma,"  said  Floss,  "but  they're  going  to  be 
mended.  Nurse  thinks  they'll  do  a  good  while  longer,  if  they're 
mended.  I  hope  they  will,  for  I  know  you  always  have  so 
many  new  things  to  get  when  winter  begins  to  come — haven't 
you,  mamma?" 

Mrs.  Desart  sighed  again. 

"I  should  have  liked  all  your  things  to  be  so  nice,"  she  said, 
more  as  if  speaking  to  herself  than  to  Floss,  "but  it  can't  be 
helped." 

Something  in  her  tone  caught  Floss's  attention. 

"Why,  mamma,"  she  asked,  "why  did  you  want  our  things 
to  be  so  nice?" 

"Because,  dears,  you  may  be  going  away  from  home,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Desart. 

Floss  and  Carrots  stared  with  astonishment.  "Going  away 
from  home,"  Floss  repeated,  utterly  unable  to  say  more.  Car- 
rots could  say  nothing  at  all,  he  could  only  stare. 

"Yes,"  continued  Mrs.  Desart,   "I  had  meant  to   tell  you 

all  about  it  before,   but   I   have   kept   putting   it   off "   she 

stopped  and  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"Why,  mamma?"  said  Floss  again.  "Don't  you  like  us  to 
go?     Are  you  coming  with  us,  mamma?" 

"Are  we  going  to  auntie's?"  said  Carrots. 

His  asking  this  seemed  to  please  his  mother. 

"You  would  like  to  go  to  auntie's,  wouldn't  you,  Carrots?" 
she  said* 


"CARROTS"  217 

Carrots  stroked  his  mother's  shawl  up  and  down  two  or 
three  times  before  he  answered. 

"I'd  like  to  go  if  you  would  come  too,"  he  said  at  last,  "but 
I  think  I  would  rather  stay  at  home,  thank  you,  if  you  can't 
come." 

Mrs.  Desart's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "Poor  little  Carrots!" 
she  said,  softly  smoothing  his  curls  with  her  hand.  "But  if  it 
would  please  me  for  Floss  and  you  to  go  without  me?"  she  said. 

"I'll  go  if  you  want  me  to  go,  mamma,"  said  Carrots. 

"I  must  explain  a  little,"  said  Mrs.  Desart,  and  then  she 
went  on  to  tell  the  children  how  it  was.  The  doctor  had  said 
she  must  not  risk  another  winter  at  Sandyshore,  and  it  had  been 
arranged  for  her  to  go  to  a  warmer  climate.  Cecil  and  Louise 
were  to  go  with  her;  Captain  Desart  would  be  with  them  as 
much  as  he  possibly  could,  and  Maurice  was  to  live  at  school. 
And  what  concerned  the  two  little  ones  almost  more  than  any- 
thing, nurse  was  to  go  too!     "I  must  have  some  one  kind  and 

sensible  with  me,  in  case,  in  case "  and  again  Mrs.  Desart 

hesitated. 

"In  case  you  were  very  tired  with  travelling,  or  if  you  were 
to  get  a  bad  cold  again;  somebody  who  could  make  nice  white 
wine  whey  and  things  like  that,"  said  Floss,  who  was  of  a  prac- 
tical turn  of  mind,  "oh  yes,  mamma,  I  quite  understand." 

"Though  nurse  is  getting  old,  she  has  been  so  much  accus- 
tomed to  travelling,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Desart,  "and  we  are  going 
a  long  way — to  Algeria;  Floss,  do  you  know  where  that  is?" 

"Over  the  sea!"  said  Floss,  "I  wish  we  might  come  too, 
mamma,  Carrots  and  I,"  she  exclaimed.  "You  will  be  so  far 
away." 

"But  you  will  be  with  auntie,  and  you  know  how  kind  auntie 
is,"  said  her  mother,  forcing  herself  to  speak  cheerfully.  "And 
it  is  such  a  pretty  place  where  auntie  lives." 

"Is  the  sea  there?"  said  Carrots. 

"No,  but  the  hills  are,"  answered  Mrs.  Desart  with  a  smile. 


218  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"I  am  quite  sure  you  will  like  it."  And  she  went  on  to  tell 
them  so  much  about  auntie's  pretty  home  that  for  a  little  they 
almost  forgot  everything  but  the  pleasant  part  of  the  change 
that  was  to  come  so  soon. 

And  it  did  come  very  soon.  It  seemed  but  a  few  days 
from  the  afternoon  they  had  first  heard  about  it  all,  when  Floss 
and  Carrots  found  themselves  early  one  morning  at  the  little 
railway  station  with  their  father,  waiting  for  the  train. 

Captain  Desart  was  to  travel  with  them  for  the  first  hour, 
to  take  them  to  the  "junction"  where  they  were  to  change  and 
get  into  a  train  which  would  take  them  straight  to  Whitefriars, 
near  which  was  auntie's  house. 

You  will  laugh,  children,  I  dare  say,  and  think  Floss  and 
Carrots  very  countrified  and  ignorant  when  I  tell  you  that  they 
had  never  been  a  long  railway  journey  before.  Never,  that  is 
to  say,  that  they  could  remember — for  their  parents  had  come 
to  Sandyshore  when  Floss  was  a  baby,  and  Carrots,  as  you 
know,  had  been  born  there. 

So  you  can  hardly  fancy  what  a  wonderful  event  this  jour- 
ney was  to  them. 

Their  little  hearts  were  very  full  at  first  after  parting  with 
their  mother,  and  sisters,  and  nurse,  and  all  that  made  the  Cove 
House  home  to  them. 

And  their  mamma  had  kissed  them  so  many  times,  as  if  she 
could  not  really  say  good-bye,  though  she  was  not  generally  a 
very  petting  or  kissing  mamma,  but  rather  quiet  and  grave. 

And  nurse  had  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  Louise  had  them 
pouring  down  her  face,  and  Cecil  had  her  face  squeezed  up  in 
a  sort  of  way  that  Floss  knew  meant  she  was  determined  she 
would  not  cry.  Floss  felt  troubled  in  a  way  she  could  not  under- 
stand, and  I  think  Carrots  did  too.  They  had  a  feeling  that 
the  bigger  people  knew  of  more  reason  for  sorrow  than  had 
been  told  to  them,  and  yet  they  could  not  imagine  what  it  could 
be.     And  after  all,  to  them   the  parting  for  even   four  or  five 


'CARROTS"  219 

months  was  almost  as  great  a  trouble  as  they  could  understand, 
only,  they  were  going  to  "auntie's"! 

"And  we  will  try  to  be  so  good,  dear  mamma,"  said  Floss, 
bravely  choking  down  her  tears.     "We  will  try  to  get  on  with 

our   lessons,   too,   and   write   you  nice   letters.     And — and " 

here  a  sob  or  two  would  make  its  way,  "I  can't  help  crying  a 
little;  but  I'm  sure  we  shall  be  very  happy,  won't  we,  Carrots?" 

"If  mamma  wants  us  to  be  happy,  we'll  try,  won't  we. 
Floss?"  said  Carrots.  He  wiped  the  tears  on  his  mother's  cheeks 
with  his  own  little  pocket-handkerchief  and  looked  up  in  her  face 
piteously.  "Please  don't  cry,  poor  mamma,"  he  said;  "we  will 
be  good  and  happy." 

Then  their  father  came  in  and  hurried  them  off,  and  the 
farewells  were  over — that  part  of  them,  at  least,  for  the  saying 
good-bye  to  Captain  Desart  at  the  junction  was  rather  hard  too. 

And  at  last  Floss  and  Carrots  find  themselves  at  the  height 
of  their  ambition — alone  in  a  railway  carriage  travelling  to 
auntie's!  But  they  do  not  seem  so  delighted  as  they  used  to 
fancy  they  would;  they  do  not  jump  about  and  laugh  and  chatter 
in  their  overflowing  pleasure — they  sit  quite  still,  side  by  side, 
holding  each  other's  hands  and  with  little  quiet,  grave  faces. 

"Things  never  come  the  same  as  people  fancy,"  said  Floss 
at  last.  "We  never  thought  we  should  go  to  auntie's  because 
poor  mamma  was  ill,  did  we,  Carrots?" 

"No,  we  never  did,"  said  Carrots.  "But  mamma  will  soon 
get  better,  won't  she,  Floss,  at  that  nice  warm  place?" 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course  she  will,"  said  Floss.  "But  it's  a  long 
way  away,  Carrots,  and  I  never  thought  going  to  auntie's  would 
be  like  this." 

"No,"  agreed  Carrots  again,  "we  never  did." 

"I'm  so  sorry  to  leave  them  all,  aren't  you,  Carrots?"  said 
Floss,  her  voice  trembling  a  little. 

"Yes,"  said  Carrots;  "and,  Floss,  I'm  very  sorry,  too,  to 
leave  the  sea.     I  never  left  the  sea  before,  you  know." 


220  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"But  the  sea  won't  miss  you,"  said  Floss,  "and  poor  mamma 
and  nursie  and  all  of  them  will  miss  us.  That's  what  I  keep 
thinking  of." 

"When  should  we  eat  our  dinner,  Floss?"  said  Carrots, 
with  an  instinct  that  it  would  he  as  well  to  change  the  subject. 

"Not  just  yet.  When  we've  gone  about  half-way  would 
do;  and  papa  said  that  great  big  place,  Millingham,  would  be 
about  half-way." 

"But  if  there  were  any  other  people  to  get  into  the  car- 
riage?" said  Carrots. 

"Well,  it  wouldn't  matter,"  said  Floss.  "People  must  eat 
when  they  are  travelling." 

"But  wouldn't  we  have  to  ask  them  to  have  some  too?" 
suggested  Carrots. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Floss;  "I  never  thought  of  that.  Per- 
haps it  would  be  polite.  But  there  are  only  eight  sandwiches, 
Carrots;  eight  sandwiches  and  four  sponge  cakes  and  a  packet 
of  Albert  biscuits.     I  hope  a  great  many  people  won't  get  in." 

No  one  got  in  at  the  next  station.  Only  the  guard  put  his 
head  in  at  the  door,  as  Captain  Desart  had  asked  him  to  do,  to 
see  how  the  little  pair  were  getting  on.  Carrots  had  thoughts  of 
offering  him  a  sandwich,  but  he  disappeared  before  there  was 
time  to  do  so,  which  Floss  thought  very  fortunate  when  she 
heard  of  Carrots'  intention.  "For  you  see,"  she  said,  "if  we 
began  offering  them  to  him,  we  would  have  to  do  it  at  every 
station,  and  if  there  are  eight  stations  before  Whitefriars,  all  our 
sandwiches  would  be  gone." 

"He  might  have  a  biscuit  for  a  change,"  said  Carrots,  sub- 
missive, but  scarcely  convinced.  "He  is  a  nice  man.  Floss — he 
calls  us  'Well,  sir,'  and  'Miss.'  Do  you  think  papa  told  him  to 
say  'Well,  sir,'  and  'Miss'?" 

But  before  Floss  had  time  to  answer  they  had  stopped 
again,  and  this  time  some  one  did  get  into  their  carriage.  The 
newcomer   was   a   small   neat,    oldish    ladv.      She   looked    rather 


"CARROTS"  221 

grim  at  first,  but  after  a  while  she  grew  decidedly  friendly,  and 
no  wonder;  for  at  Millingham,  Floss  and  Carrots  unpacked  their 
little  basket  of  provisions,  and  I  don't  think  the  grimmest  of 
maiden  ladies  could  have  remained  grim  after  the  politeness  with 
which  the  children  treated  her. 

They  selected  the  nicest-looking  sandwich,  putting  it  on  an 
Albert  biscuit  by  way  of  a  plate,  and  then,  at  a  sign  from  Floss, 
Carrots  clambered  down  from  his  seat  and  gravely  offered  it  to 
the  lady. 

"I'm  sorry  there's  no  mustard,  if  you  like  mustard,"  said 
Floss;  "but  Carrots  and  I  don't  like  it,  and — and — I  suppose 
nurse  didn't  think  of  any  one  else." 

The  oldish  lady  looked  at  the  children  for  a  moment  before 
she  replied. 

"I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  she  said  at  last,  "but  I 
think  I  won't  take  a  sandwich,  as  I  had  luncheon  before  I  left 
home.  But  if  you  will  allow  me  I  will  have  a  biscuit.  I  am 
very  fond  of  biscuits." 

"I'm  so  glad,"  said  Floss,  hospitably.  "Now,  Carrots,"  she 
said  in  a  lower  voice,  "you  eat  two  sandwiches  and  I'll  eat  two, 
and  we'll  each  have  one  sponge  cake.  And  that'll  do  for  dinner. 
We'll  eat  the  rest  in  about  an  hour  and  pretend  we're  having 
tea  early." 

The  lady  asked  them  a  good  many  questions  after  this,  and 
told  them  they  were  such  well-behaved  children  she  would  not 
mind  travelling  all  the  way  to  Whitefriars  with  them.  Floss 
blushed  a  little  at  this;  it  made  her  feel  shy  to  be  praised  to  her 
face,  but  still  no  doubt  the  lady  meant  it  kindly,  and  they  were 
rather  sorry  when  she  left  them,  some  stations  before  they  got 
to  Whitefriars.  Their  old  friend  the  guard  left  them  here,  too, 
but  he  popped  his  head  in  for  the  last  time  to  say  that  he  was 
going  to  speak  for  them  to  "him  that  was  coming  on  now."  And 
Floss  thanked  him,  though  she  had  not  the  least  idea  what  he 
meant. 


222  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

But  there  must  have  been  some  mistake  about  it,  for  the  new 
guard  never  came  near  them,  and  when,  at  the  last  stoppage 
before  Whitefriars,  another  man  threw  the  door  open  and  de- 
manded "tickets,"  Floss  felt  too  startled  by  his  rough  manner  to 
ask  him  what  they  were  longing  to  know,  how  far  they  still  had 
to  go.  But  he  took  away  the  tickets.  "So  we  can't  have  very  far 
to  go,"  said  Floss.  "Papa  said  they  would  take  away  the  tickets 
a  little  before  we  got  to  Whitefriars." 

"Will  auntie  be  at  the  station?"  said  Carrots. 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  she  will,"  said  Floss.  "Auntie  and  Sybil 
too,  perhaps.  Carrots,  I  do  believe  we're  there;  the  train's 
stopping." 

And  in  another  minute  they  found  themselves  in  a  nice 
clean-looking  station  with  several  people  standing  about  on  the 
platform,  evidently  waiting  for  the  train. 

The  children  looked  out  eagerly.  There  were  two  or  three 
ladies,  one  little  girl,  and  a  few  other  people — but  no  auntie,  no 
Sybil! 

"P'raps  this  isn't  the  place,"  said  carrots. 

"Please,  is  this  Whitefriars?"  inquired  Floss  of  a  porter  who 
just  then  threw  open  the  door. 

"Whitefriars,  yes,  miss.     Any  luggage?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Floss  anxiously,  "a  great  deal.  It's  in  one 
of  the  luggage  carriages,  and  it's  marked  with  our  name." 

The  man  smiled.  "Will  you  come  with  me,  missie,  and  show 
me  which  it  is,  and  I'll  get  it  all  right  for  you." 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Floss,  gathering  together  their  cloaks 
and  baskets,  and  preparing  to  descend. 

"What  a  kind  man,"  whispered  Carrots;  and  when  the  por- 
ter lifted  him  out  of  the  carriage  he  took  hold  of  his  hand  and 
ran  along  beside  him  as  fast  as  his  little  legs  could  keep  up. 

Floss  felt  quite  bewildered  at  first,  when  she  saw  the  heaps 
and  heaps  of  luggage  lying  on  the  platform,  all  labelled  "White- 
friars."    It  seemed  to  her  that  everybody  must  have  been  travel- 


"CARROTS"  223 

ling  to  Whitefriars  to-day!  But  by  degrees  it  was  claimed  and 
melted  away,  and  the  kind  porter,  to  whom  she  had  already 
pointed  out  their  "great  deal" — one  portmanteau,  one  bag,  and 
a  small  tin  hat-box — soon  picked  it  up  and  stood  waiting  for 
further  orders. 

"Where  am  I  to  take  it  to,  please,  miss?"  he  said.  "Is  there 
no  one  here  to  meet  you?" 

"I  don't  think  so,  I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  said  Floss, 
looking  sadly  troubled  again.  In  the  excitement  of  finding  the 
luggage  she  had  forgotten  this  new  difficulty,  but  now  it  re- 
turned in  full  force. 

"Have  you  far  to  go?"  said  the  man. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Floss,  "auntie's  house  is  near  here,  I  know." 

"Then  perhaps  little  master  and  you  had  better  walk  on, 
and  send  for  the  luggage  afterwards?"  suggested  the  man,  never 
doubting  from  Floss's  manner  that  the  children  were  accustomed 
to  the  place,  and  knew  their  way. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Floss  uncertainly. 

"Or  shall  I  fetch  you  a  fly  from  the  Blue  Boar?"  said  the 
man.    "The  station  flies  has  all  drove  off." 

"No,  thank  you;  I  don't  think  I  have  enough  money  for 
that,"  said  Floss,  feeling  in  her  pocket  for  her  purse,  which  she 
knew  contained  only  her  father's  parting  gift  of  half-a-crown, 
a  sixpence  with  a  hole  in  it,  and  three  pennies  of  Carrots' !  "Your 
auntie  says  she  will  get  you  everything  you  want,  so  I  need  not 
give  you  any  money  with  you,"  their  mother  had  said.  Floss 
had  no  idea  what  a  fly  from  the  Blue  Boar  would  cost,  but  it 
sounded  very  grand,  and  she  hardly  dared  to  risk  it. 

"Well,  I  dare  say  you'll  be  safest  to  walk,"  said  the  porter, 
rather  afraid  of  getting  himself  into  a  scrape  if  he  fetched  the 
children  a  fly  without  proper  authority,  and  feeling  uncertain, 
from  their  very  plain  and  rather  "countryfied"  appearance,  if  their 
friends  belonged  to  the  fly  patronising  class  or  not.     "I'll  keep 


224  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

the  luggage  safe  till  it's  sent  for — no  fear,"  and  with  a  friendly 
nod  he  marched  off  with  their  possessions. 

Holding  Carrots  by  the  hand,  Floss  made  her  way  out  of 
the  station.  For  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  the  road  ran  straight 
before  them  and  they  trudged  along  contentedly  enough.  But 
after  awhile  they  came  to  a  point  where  two  roads  met,  one 
leading  to  the  little  watering-place  (for  the  station  was  some 
way  from  the  town),  the  other  out  into  the  country.  And  for 
the  first  time  it  struck  Floss  that  she  did  not  know  the  way.  She 
looked  about  her  in  perplexity. 

"It  cannot  be  far,"  she  said;  "mamma  always  said  auntie 
lived  near  Whitefriars.     But  I  wish  I  knew  which  way  to  go." 

Carrots  had  no  suggestion  to  offer.  To  make  matters  worse, 
it  began  to  rain — a  cold,  sleety,  late  October  rain;  the  children 
had  no  umbrella,  and  were  already  tired  and  hungry.  I  think  it 
was  much  to  their  credit  that  they  did  not  lose  heart  altogether. 

Just  as  Floss  was  making  up  her  mind  to  take  the  turn 
leading  in  the  distance  to  terraces  of  houses  and  gardens  and 
other  signs  of  civilisation,  there  came,  jogging  along  the  road 
on  a  cart-horse,  a  farmer's  boy.  Joyful  sight!  Floss  plucked 
up  heart. 

"Can  you  tell  me,  please,"  she  called  out,  "which  is  the  way 
to  Greenmays?" 

The  farmer's  boy  turned  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the 
country  road.  "Yonder,"  he  shouted,  without  stopping  in  his 
jog,  "straight  on  past  the  church,  and  down  lane  to  left." 

"Is  it  far?"  asked  Floss,  but  the  boy  did  not  seem  to  hear. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  on  with  their  trudge. 
The  rain  was  not  heavy  but  very  piercingly  cold,  and  the  day- 
light was  beginning  to  fade.  Two  or  three  hot  tears  at  last 
forced  their  way  down  Floss's  cheeks,  but  she  wiped  them  quickly 
away,  before  Carrots  could  see  them.  Carrots  said  nothing, 
but  Floss  knew  he  was  getting  tired  by  the  way  he  kept  lagging 


"CARROTS"  225 

behind,  every  now  and  then  giving  a  little  run  to  get  up  to  Floss 
again. 

"I  shouldn't  mind  so  much,  Floss,"  he  said  at  last,  "if  it 
would  be  home  when  ive  get  there,  and  if  we  were  to  find  mamma 
and  nurse  and  tea  in  our  own  nursery  waiting  for  us." 

This  was  altogether  too  much  for  Floss.  For  a  moment 
or  two  she  could  not  speak,  she  was  choked  with  sobs.  "Oh, 
how  I  do  Avish  poor  mamma  hadn't  got  ill,"  she  said  at  last. 

"Poor  Flossie,  dear  Flossie,"  said  Carrots,  pulling  down  her 
face  to  kiss  in  spite  of  the  rain  and  the  dark  and  the  cold  and 
everything.  "I  didn't  mean  to  make  you  cry.  And  auntie  will 
be  very  kind  when  we  get  there,  won't  she,  Floss?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Floss,  trying  to  speak  cheerfully,  though  in 
her  secret  heart  there  was  a  little  misgiving.  It  did  not  look 
very  kind  not  to  have  sent  to  meet  them  at  the  station,  and  even 
without  this,  Floss,  though  she  had  not  said  so,  had  felt  a  little 
shy  and  frightened  at  the  thought  of  meeting  auntie  and  the 
strange  uncle,  and  even  Sybil  again.  It  was  nearly  two  years 
since  the  visit  to  Sandyshore,  and  two  years  is  a  lifetime  to  a 
child — it  seemed  to  Floss  like  going  altogether  among  strangers. 
She  clasped  her  little  brother's  hand  tighter  as  these  feelings 
passed  through  her  mind.  "It  won't  be  so  bad  for  Carrots," 
she  reflected;  "anyway  he  will  have  me." 

They  seemed  to  have  walked  a  very  weary  way  when  at 
last  the  church,  of  which  the  farmer's  boy  had  spoken,  came  in 
sight — very  dimly  in  sight,  for  the  daylight  was  fast  dying  away. 
Floss  would  have  passed  the  church  without  noticing  it,  but  the 
road  divided  in  two  just  at  this  place,  and  she  was  obliged 
to  think  which  way  to  go.  Then  the  boy's  directions  came  into 
her  mind. 

"To  the  left  past  the  church,  didn't  he  say,  Carrots?"  she 
said. 

"  'Down  lane  to  left,'  he  said,"  replied  Carrots. 

"Then  it  must  be  this  way,"  said  Floss,  and  on  they  trudged. 


226  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

In  a  few  minutes  they  came  to  large  gates,  on  one  side  of 
which  stood  a  pretty  little  house;  but  such  a  little  house,  hardly 
bigger  than  a  cottage. 

"Is  that  auntie's  house?"  said  Carrots. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  too  little  to  be  auntie's  house,"  said  Floss. 
"I  wish  it  was.     I  would  much  rather  auntie  lived  in  a  cottage." 

"Just  like  Mrs.  White's,"  said  Carrots. 

Floss  could  not  help  laughing  at  him;  it  had  left  off  raining 
and  her  spirits  were  rising  a  little. 

"Look,  Carrots,"  she  said,  "there  is  a  light  in  the  cottage 
window.  We'd  better  knock  at  the  door  and  ask  if  it  is  auntie's 
house.  It's  getting  rather  like  a  fairy  story,  isn't  it,  Carrots? 
Fancy  if  somebody  calls  out  'Pull  the  string  and  the  latch  will 
open.'  " 

"But  that  would  be  the  wolf,  Floss,"  said  Carrots,  pressing 
closer  to  his  sister. 

It  was  no  wolf,  but  a  nice,  tidy-looking  woman  with  a  white 
cap  and  a  baby  in  her  arms  who  opened  the  door,  and  stood 
staring  at  the  two  little  wayfarers  in  bewilderment.  Floss  grew 
afraid  that  she  was  angry. 

"I'm  very  sorry — I  mean  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  began. 
"I  didn't  know  this  was  your  house.  We  thought  perhaps  it 
was  auntie's.    Can  you  tell  me  please,  where  Greenmays  is?" 

"This  is  Greenmays,"  said  the  Avoman.  Floss  stared:  the 
door  opened  right  into  the  kitchen,  it  couldn't  be  auntie's  house. 

"This  is  the  lodge,"  continued  the  woman.  "If  it's  some 
one  at  the  big  house  you're  wanting,  you  must  just  go  straight 
up  the  drive.  I'd  show  you  the  way,"  she  went  on,  "but  my 
husband's  up  at  the  stables  and  it's  too  cold  for  baby.  You  seem 
wet  and  tired,  you  do — have  you  come  far?" 

"Yes,"  said  Floss,  wearily,  "very  far.  We  thought  auntie 
would  meet  us  at  the  station,  but  there  wasn't  anybody." 

"They  must  be  kin  to  the  housekeeper,  surely,"  thought  the 
woman.     And  yet  something  indescribable   in   Floss's   manner, 


'Then   it  must  be  this  way,"  said   Floss. 


"CARROTS"  227 

and  in  the  clear,  well-bred  tones  of  her  small,  childish  voice,  pre- 
vented her  asking  if  this  was  so.  "I  wish  I  could  go  with  you 
to  the  house,"  she  repeated,  curiosity  and  kindliness  alike  prompt- 
ing her,  "but,"  she  added,  looking  doubtfully  at  the  sleeping 
child  in  her  arms,  "I'm  afeared  for  baby." 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter,  thank  you,"  said  Floss,  "we  can 
find  the  way,  I  dare  say.  Good-evening,"  and  taking  Carrots 
by  the  hand,  she  turned  to  go. 

"Good-evening,"  said  little  Carrots  also. 

"Good-evening,  and  I  hope  you'll  find  your  auntie  in,"  said 
the  woman.  And  for  a  few  minutes  she  stood  at  the  door 
straining  her  eyes  after  the  two  forlorn  little  figures  till  she  could 
distinguish  them  no  longer  in  the  darkness  of  the  trees  bordering 
the  avenue.  "Who  can  they  be?"  she  said  to  herself.  "Such  a 
pretty  spoken,  old-fashioned  little  pair  I  never  did  see!" 


CHAPTER   XI 

HAPPY   AND   SAD 

"  'Tis  gone — and  in  a  merry  fit 

They  run  upstairs  in  gamesome  race. 

A  moment's  heaviness  they  feel, 
A  sadness  at  the  heart." 

The  Mother's  Return. 

It  was  very  dark  in  the  drive,  and  Carrots  crept  close  to 
Floss.  But  Floss  felt  far  less  afraid  of  the  dark  than  of  the 
light  when  at  last  the  house  came  in  view  and  the  brightly  lit 
up  windows  shone  out  into  the  gloom. 

"Oh,  what  a  big  house,"  said  Floss.  "Oh,  Carrots,  how  I  do 
wish  that  little  cottage  had  been  auntie's  house,  even  though  the 
door  did  open  right  into  the  kitchen.     Don't  you,  Carrots?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Carrots,  "auntie  will  be  very  kind 
to  us,  won't  she,  Floss?" 


228  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Floss,  "but  supposing  she  is  having  a  party- 
to-night,  Carrots?" 

"Well,  we  could  have  tea  in  the  nursery,  and  go  to  bed," 
said  Carrots  philosophically.  "Oh,  Floss,  wouldn't  you  like  some 
nice  hot  tea  and  bread  and  butter?" 

"Poor  Carrots,"  said  Floss.  And  her  anxiety  to  see  her 
little  brother  in  comfort  again  gave  her  courage  to  ring  the  bell 
as  loudly  as  she  could. 

A  man  servant  opened  the  door.  Very  tall  and  formidable 
he  looked  to  the  two  children,  whose  eyes  were  dazzled  by  the 
sudden  light,  after  their  long  walk  in  the  dusk. 

"If  you  please,"  said  Floss,  "is  auntie  at  home?" 

The  man  stared.  "What  did  you  say?"  he  inquired.  "Is 
it  a  message  from  some  one?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Floss,  "it's  just  that  we've  come,  Carrots  and 
I — will  you  please  tell  auntie?  We've  walked  all  the  way  from 
the  station,  because  there  was  no  one  to  meet  us." 

The  man  still  stared.  He  had  heard  something  about  a 
young  lady  and  gentleman,  his  mistress's  nephew  and  niece,  being 
expected  on  a  visit,  but  his  ideas  were  rather  slow.  He  could 
not  all  at  once  take  in  that  the  dilapidated  little  couple  before 
him  could  possibly  be  the  looked  for  guests. 

But  just  then  another  person  came  upon  the  scene.  A  little 
figure  with  bright  dark  eyes  and  flying  hair  came  dancing  into 
the  hall. 

"Who's  there,  Fletcher?"  she  said.     "Is  it  the  post?" 

"No,  miss,"  said  Fletcher,  rather  glad  of  some  one  to  consult 
in  his  perplexity.  "I  don't  know  who  it  is — that's  to  say,  it's  a 
little  boy  and  girl  who  say  as  they've  come  from  the  station,  but 
I  can't  justly  make  out  who  it  is  they  want." 

"How  funny,"  said  Sybil,  coming  forward  and  peering  out 
from  under  Fletcher's  arm,  "perhaps  they'll  tell  me  what  they 
want.  Who  are  you,  little  girl?  Is  it  my  mother  you  want? 
Will  you  give  me  your  message?" 


"CARROTS"  229 

She  looked  more  like  a  little  princess  than  ever.  She  was 
dressed  to  go  down  to  the  drawing-room  before  dinner — all  white 
embroidery  and  lace  and  rose-coloured  ribbons.  Floss  and  Car- 
rots looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  dazzled  admiration,  mingled  with 
shy  bewilderment.  It  all  seemed  more  of  a  mistake  than  ever — 
Sybil  was  evidently  not  expecting  them — if  only  the  railway 
station  had  not  been  so  dreadfully  far  away,  Floss  felt  as  if  she 
would  have  liked  to  take  Carrots  by  the  hand  and  go  away  back 
again,  all  the  long  weary  way  to  Sandyshore! 

But  Carrots'  faith  in  auntie  and  Sybil  was  unshaken — and 
his  childlike  confidence  less  susceptible  of  chill.  Partly  from 
mortification,  partly  to  hide  that  she  was  crying,  Floss  stood 
perfectly  silent,  but  Carrots  pressed  forward. 

"It  is  Flossie  and  me,  Sybil — don't  you  remember  us? 
We've  walked  such  a  long  way,  and  there  was  nobody  to  meet  us 
at  the  station,  and  we  are  so  cold  and  so  hungry!" 

Sybil  gave  a  sort  of  leap  into  the  air.  "Floss  and  Carrots !" 
she  cried,  "oh  mother,  mother,  come  quick,  here  are  Floss  and 
Carrots!" 

She  seemed  to  fly  across  the  hall  in  one  second,  and  darting 
down  a  passage  disappeared,  crying  out  all  the  way,  "Flossie 
and  Carrots — oh,  mother,  mother,  come." 

And  before  the  children  had  time  to  consider  what  they  had 
best  do,  and  long  before  the  very  deliberate  Mr.  Fletcher  had 
collected  his  wits  sufficiently  to  decide  upon  inviting  them  to 
come  in,  Sybil  was  back  again,  closely  followed  by  her  mother, 
whom  she  had  dragged  out  of  the  drawing-room  without  any 
other  explanation  than  her  cry  of  "Floss  and  Carrots !  Oh,  mother, 
Flossie  and  Carrots." 

And  when  Floss  saw  auntie  running  to  them,  with  her  kind 
face  all  eagerness  and  anxiety,  the  shyness  and  disappointment 
and  the  mortification  all  seemed  suddenly  to  melt  away.  She 
rushed  into  the  hall  and  threw  herself  sobbing  into  auntie's  arms. 
"Oh,  auntie,"  she  cried,  "we  are  so  tired — poor  Carrots  is  I  mean, 


230  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

and  so  hungry,  and  I  thought  you  had  forgotten  us,  and  we're 
so  far  away  from  mamma." 

Auntie  understood  all  about  it  in  a  moment.  She  hugged 
Floss  tight,  and  only  let  go  of  her  for  an  instant  to  get  hold  of 
Carrots  and  hug  him  tight  too.  And  then,  when  she  saw  the 
two  tired  little  white  faces,  and  felt  how  wet  they  were,  and  saw 
the  tears  on  Floss's  cheeks,  she  sat;  down  on  the  hall  floor,  still 
clasping  them  tight,  and  actually  cried  too. 

"My  two  poor  dear  little  babes  in  the  wood,"  she  exclaimed. 
"What  a  dreadful  mistake!  What  a  cruel  auntie  you  must  have 
thought  me!" 

"I  didn't  know  if  you  wanted  us — I  thought  perhaps  you 
had  forgotten  about  us  coming,"  whispered  Floss. 

"No  wonder,"  said  auntie;  "but  Flossie,  darling,  I  haven't 
got  any  letter  to  say  what  day  you  were  coming.  That  was  why 
we  were  not  at  the  station.  Sybil  and  I  had  been  making  such 
delightful  plans  about  how  we  should  meet  you  at  the  station — 
do  you  think  your  father  and  mother  could  have  forgotten  to 
write  to  tell  me  the  day?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Floss,  "I  know  papa  wrote  to  tell  you — he 
wrote  the  day  before  yesterday,  for  I  heard  him  tell  mamma 
so.  And  this  morning  when  the  post  came,  just  as  we  were 
leaving,  he  wondered  a  little  that  there  was  no  letter  from  you, 
but  he  said  perhaps  you  hadn't  thought  it  worth  while  to  write, 
as  you  had  said  any  day  this  week  would  do  for  us  to  come." 

"Of  course  I  would  have  written,"  said  auntie;  "but  what 
can  have  become  of  the  letter?" 

It  had  evidently  gone  astray  somehow,  and  that  very  eve- 
ning the  mystery  was  explained,  for  the  postman  brought  it — a 
very  travel-worn  letter  indeed,  with  two  or  three  scrawls  across 
it  in  red  ink— "Missent  to  Whitehurst,"  "Try  Whitefield," 
etc.,  etc. 

"Whenever  a  letter  does  go  wr.ong,  which  certainly  is  not 
very  often,  it  is  sure  to  be  one  of  consequence,"  said  auntie.    But 


"CARROTS"  231 

long  before  the  letter  came  Floss  and  Carrots  had  forgotten  their 
troirbles — at  least  if  they  hadn't  it  was  not  auntie's  fault,  for  I 
can't  tell  you  how  kind  she  was  and  what  a  fuss  she  made  about 
them.  She  took  them  up  to  Sybil's  nice  beautiful  warm  nursery, 
and  all  their  wet  things  were  taken  off,  and  Floss  was  wrapped 
up  in  a  dressing-gown  of  auntie's  and  Carrots  in  one  of  Sybil's, 
and  then  they  had  the  most  lovely  tea  you  can  imagine. 

Sybil's  father  was  away  that  night  and  was  not  coming  back 
till  the  next  day,  and  auntie  was  to  have  dinner  alone,  with  Sybil  be- 
side her,  you  may  be  sure,  to  "keep  her  company,"  and  help  her  to  get 
through  dinner  by  opening  her  little  mouth  for  "tastes"  every  now 
and  then.  But  auntie  had  to  manage  alone,  after  all,  for  of  course 
Sybil  would  not  leave  Floss  and  Carrots,  and  auntie  sent  up  the 
very  nicest  things  from  the  dining-table  for  the  children  to  eat 
with  their  tea,  and  Sybil  did  get  some  "tastes,"  I  can  assure  you. 

And  they  laughed  at  each  other  in  the  dressing-gowns,  and 
Floss  quite  forgot  that  she  had  expected  to  feel  shy  and  strange. 
Only  when  auntie  came  up  to  the  nursery  again  after  dinner 
and  made  Floss  tell  her  all  about  the  long  walk  in  the  cold  and 
the  dark,  and  about  the  "kind  porter,"  and  the  oldish-looking 
lady,  and,  further  back  still,  about  the  leaving  home  in  the 
morning  and  how  poor  mamma  kissed  them  "so  many,  many 
times" — Floss  could  not  help  crying  again  a  little,  nor  could 
auntie  either.  And  though  Carrots  and  Sybil  did  not  cry,  their 
little  faces  looked  very  solemn  and  as  if  they  almost  thought  they 
should  cry,  as  they  sat  side  by  side  on  the  rug  in  front  of  the 
high  nursery  guard,  Carrots  in  the  funny  red-flannel  dressing- 
gown  which  made  him  look  so  "old-fashioned,"  and  Sybil  in  her 
white  embroidery  and  rose  ribbons,  crumpling  them  all  up  "any- 
how" in  a  way  which  really  went  to  Floss's  heart,  though  auntie 
did  not  seem  to  mind. 

Then  came  bedtime.  Such  a  nice  bedtime,  for  auntie  had 
prepared  for  them  two  dear  little  rooms,  with  a  door  between, 
that  they  should  not  feel  far  away  from  eac"h  other.    And  though 


232  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

it  was  the  very  first  time  in  Carrots'  life  that  he  had  gone  to  bed 
without  kind  old  nurse  to  tuck  him  up,  he  did  not  feel  unhappy, 
for  Floss  reminded  him  what  a  good  thing  it  was  that  their 
mother  had  nurse  with  her  now  she  was  ill,  and  besides,  Sybil's 
French  maid  Denise  was  very  kind  and  merry,  and  not  at  all 
"stuck  up"  or  grand. 

And  the  waking  the  next  morning! 

Who  does  not  know  those  first  wakings  in  a  strange  place! 
Sometimes  so  pleasant,  sometimes  so  sad,  but  never,  I  think, 
without  a  strange  interestingness  of  their  own.  This  waking  was 
pleasant,  though  so  strange.  The  sun  was  shining  for  one  thing 
■ — a  great  thing,  I  think  I  should  call  it,  and  the  children  felt 
it  to  be  so. 

They  woke  about  the  same  time  and  called  out  to  each  other, 
and  then  Floss  got  out  of  bed  and  went  to  see  how  Carrots 
was  looking,  after  all  his  adventures. 

"You  haven't  caught  cold,  I  hope,  Carrots,"  she  said  in  a 
motherly  tone. 

"Oh,  no.  I'm  quite  well,"  replied  Carrots,  "I  haven't  even  a 
cold  in  my  nose.  And  isn't  it  a  nice  morning,  Floss,  and  isn't 
this  a  lovely  room?" 

"Yes,"  said  Floss,  "and  so  is  mine,  Carrots." 

"And  auntie  is  kind,   isn't  she,   Floss?" 

"Oh,  very"  said  Floss. 

"Isn't  it  nice  to  see  the  sun?"  said  Carrots.  "Floss,  I  can't 
understand  how  it  can  always  be  the  same  sun,  however  far 
we  go." 

"But  don't  you  remember  what  I  showed  you,"  said  Floss, 
"about  the  world  being  like  a  little  ball,  always  going  round 
and  round  a  great  light,  so  of  course  the  great  light  must  always 
be  the  same?" 

"Yes,"  said  Carrots  dreamily,  "but  still  it  seems  funny. 
Will  mamma  see  the  sun  at  that  nice  warm  place  over  the  sea?" 


"CARROTS"  233 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  Floss,  "it's  the  sun  that  makes  that 
place  nice  and  warm." 

"Is  it?"  said  Carrots.  "Is  that  place  nearer  the  sun  than 
Sandyshore   is,   Floss?" 

"No,  not  exactly.  At  least  it  is  in  a  sort  of  a  way — the 
sunshine  falls  straighter  on  it,  but  I  couldn't  explain  without 
a  globe  and  a  lot  of  fuss,"  said  Floss.  "Never  mind  just  now, 
Carrots — perhaps  auntie  can  show  you." 

"But  Floss,"  persisted  Carrots,  "I  do  want  to  know  one 
thing.     Shall  we  see  the  sun  in  heaven?" 

"No,"  said  Floss  decidedly,  "certainly  not.  It  says  in  the 
Bible  there  will  be  no  sun  or  moon  in  heaven." 

"Then  I  don't  think  I  shall  like  it  at  all,"  said  Carrots,  "for 
there  won't  be  any  sea  there  either.  I  can't  think  how  it  can  be 
a  nice  place." 

"But,  Carrots  dear,"  said  Floss  in  some  distress,  "you 
mustn't  think  of  heaven  that  way.  It  isn't  like  that.  Heaven 
isn't  like  a  place  exactly,  mamma  says.  It  is  just  being  quite 
good." 

"Being  quite  good,"  repeated  Carrots  thoughtfully.  "I 
wish  I  could  be  quite  good,  Floss,  I  wish  everybody  could, 
don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Floss.  "But  really  you  must  get  up,  Carrots 
dear;  that  will  be  good  for  just  now.  Being  good  always  comes 
in  little  bits  like  that.' 

"But  in  heaven,  the  being  good  will  be  all  in  one  great 
big  piece,  that's  how  it  will  be,  isn't  it?"  said  Carrots,  as  he  got 
out  of  bed  and  began  hunting  for  his  slippers. 

I  cannot  tell  you  half  the  history  of  that  first  day  at' 
Greenmays,  or  of  many  others  that  followed.  They  were  very 
happy  days,  and  they  were  full  of  so  many  new  pleasures  and  inter- 
ests for  Carrots  and  Floss  that  I  should  really  have  to  write  another 
book  to  tell  you  all  about  them.  Everybody  was  kind  to  the 
children,  and  everything  that  could  be  thought  of  to  make  them 


234  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

feel  "at  home"  was  done.  And  Greenmays  was  such  a  pretty 
place — Carrots  could  hardly  miss  his  dear  old  sea,  once  he  had 
learnt  to  make  friends  with  the  hills.  At  first  he  could  do 
nothing  but  gaze  at  them  in  astonishment. 

"I  didn't  think  hills  were  so  big,  or  that  they  would  have 
so  many  faces,"  he  said  to  Floss  and  Sybil  the  first  morning 
when  they  were  out  in  the  garden  together. 

Sybil  burst  out  laughing.  "Oh,  you  funny  Carrots!"  she 
said;  "you're  just  like  a  boy  in  a  fairy  story — you've  got  such 
queer  fancies." 

"But  they're  not  fancies,  Sybil,"  said  Carrots,  gravely,  turn- 
ing his  great  brown  eyes  on  his  cousin.  "The  hills  have  got  lots 
of  different  faces:  that  one  up  there,  the  one  with  the  round 
knobby  top,  has  looked  quite  different  several  times  this  morn- 
ing. First  it  looked  smiley  and  smooth,  and  then  it  got  all 
cross  and  wrinkly,  and  now  it  looks  as  if  it  was  going  to  sleep." 

Sybil  stared  up  at  the  hill  he  was  pointing  to.  "I  see  what 
you  mean,"  she  said;  "but  it's  only  the  shadows  of  the  clouds." 

"That's  pretty,"  said  Carrots:  "who  told  you  that,  Sybil? 
I  never  thought  of  clouds  having  shadows." 

"Nobody  told  me,"  said  Sybil;  "I  finded  it  out  my  own  self. 
I  find  out  lots  of  things,"  she  continued,  importantly.  "I  dare 
say  it's  because  of  my  name — papa  says  my  name  means  I 
should  find  out  things,  like  a  sort  of  a  fairy,  you  know." 

"Does  it?"  said  Carrots,  in  a  rather  awe-struck  tone.  "I 
should  like  that.  When  you  were  little,  Sybil,"  he  continued, 
"were  you  ever  frightened  of  shadows?    I  was." 

"No,"  said  Sybil,  "I  only  thought  they  were  funny.  And 
once  papa  told  me  a  story  of  a  shadow  that  ran  away  from  its 
master.  It  went  across  the  street,  at  night,  you  know,  when 
the  lamps  were  lighted:  there  were  houses  opposite,  you  see,  and 
the  shadow  went  into  such  a  beautiful  house,  and  wouldn't  come 
back  again!" 


"CARROTS"  235 

"And  what  after  that?"  said  both  Floss  and  Carrots  in  a 
breath. 

"Oh,  I  can't  tell  it  you  all,"  said  Sybil ;  "you  must  ask  papa." 

"Does  he  often  tell  you  stories?"  asked  Floss. 

"Bits,"  said  Sybil;  "he  doesn't  tell  them  all  through,  like 
mother.  But  he's  very  nice  about  answering  things  I  ask  him. 
He  doesn't  say  'you  couldn't  understand,'  or  'you'll  know  when 
you're  older,'  that  horrid  way." 

"He  must  be  nice,"  said  Floss,  who  had  secretly  been  trem- 
bling a  little  at  the  thought  of  the  strange  uncle. 

And  he  did  turn  out  very  nice.  He  was  older  than  Floss 
had  expected;  a  good  deal  older  than  auntie,  whom  he  sometimes 
spoke  to  as  if  she  were  quite  a  little  girl,  in  a  way  which  amused 
the  children  very  much.  At  first  he  seemed  very  quiet  and 
grave,  but  after  a  while  Floss  found  out  that  in  his  own  way  he 
was  very  fond  of  fun,  and  she  confided  to  auntie  that  she  thought 
he  was  the  funniest  person  she  had  ever  seen.  I  don't  know  if 
auntie  told  him  this,  or  if  he  took  it  as  a  compliment,  but  cer- 
tainly he  could  not  have  been  offended,  for  every  day,  as  they 
learnt  to  know  him  better,  the  children  found  him  kinder  and 
kinder. 

So  they  were  very  happy  at  Greenmays,  and  no  doubt  would 
have  gone  on  being  so  but  for  one  thing.  There  came  bad  news 
of  their  mother. 

This  was  how  they  heard  it.  Every  week  at  least,  for  sev- 
eral weeks,  Floss  or  Carrots,  and  sometimes  both,  got  a  letter 
from  their  mother  or  from  Cecil  and  Louise;  and  at  first  these 
letters  were  so  cheerful  that  even  the  little  bit  of  anxiety  which 
the  children  had  hardly  known  was  in  their  hearts  melted  away. 

"What  a  good  thing  mamma  went  to  that  nice  warm  place, 
isn't  it,  auntie?"  Carrots  used  to  say  after  the  arrival  of  each 
letter,  and  auntie  most  heartily  agreed  with  the  happy  little 
fellow.  But  at  last,  just  about  Christmas  time,  when  the  thin 
foreign-looking   letter,    that    the    children    had    learnt    to    know 


236  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

so  well,  made  its  appearance  one  morning  on  the  breakfast-table, 
it  proved  to  be  for  auntie — that,  of  course,  they  did  not  object 
to,  had  there  been  one  for  them  too,  but  there  was  not! 

"Auntie  dear,  there  is  no  letter  for  us,"  said  Floss,  when 
auntie  came  into  the  room.  "Will  you  please  open  yours  quick, 
and  see  if  there  is  one  inside  it?" 

"I  don't  think  there  is,"  said  auntie;  "it  doesn't  feel  like  it." 

However,  she  opened  the  letter  at  once.  No,  there  was 
no  enclosure;  and  Floss,  who  was  watching  her  face,  saw  that 
it  grew  troubled  as  she  ran  her  eyes  down  the  page. 

"My  letter  is  from  your  father.  I  cannot  read  it  properly 
till  after  breakfast,  for  uncle  is  waiting  for  me  to  pour  out  his 
coffee.  Run  off  now,  dears,  and  I'll  come  to  the  nursery  and  tell 
you  all  about  it  after  breakfast,"  she  said,  trying  to  look  and 
speak  just  the  same  as  usual. 

But  Floss  saw  that  she  was  trying;  she  did  not  persist,  how- 
ever, but  took  Carrots  by  the  hand,  and  went  off  obediently  with- 
out speaking,  only  giving  auntie  one  wistful  look  as  she  turned 
away. 

"What's  wrong,  Florence?"  said  Sybil's  father,  as  the  door 
closed  after  the  children. 

"It  is  about  Lucy,"  said  auntie;  "she  is  much  worse;  very 
ill  indeed.  She  has  caught  cold  somehow,  and  Frank  seems  al- 
most to  have  lost  hope  already." 

Two  or  three  tears  rolled  down  auntie's  face  as  she  spoke. 
For  a  minute  or  two  Sybil's  father  said  nothing. 

"How  about  telling  the  children?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"That's  just  it,"  replied  auntie.  "Frank  leaves  it  to  me 
to  tell  them  or  not,  as  I  think  best.  He  would  not  let  Cecil 
or  Louise  write,  as  he  thought  if  it  had  to  be  told  I  had  better 
do  so  as  gently  as  I  could,  by  word  of  mouth.  But  they  must 
be  told — they  are  such  quick  children,  I  believe  Floss  suspects  it 
already.  And  if — and  if  the  next  news  should  be  worse"  con- 
tinued auntie  with  a  little  sob,  "I  would  never  forgive  myself  for 


"CARROTS"  237 

not  having  prepared  them,  and  they  would  be  full  of  self-reproach 
for  having  been  happy  and  merry  as  usual.  Floss  would  say  she 
should  have  known  it  by  instinct." 

"Would  they  feel  it  so  much — could  they  realize  it?  They 
are  so  young,"  said  Sybil's  father. 

Auntie  shook  her  head.  "Not  too  young  to  feel  it  terribly," 
she  said.  "It  is  much  better  to  tell  them.  I  could  not  hide  the 
sorrow  in  my  face  from  those  two  honest  pairs  of  eyes,  for  one 
thing." 

"Well,  you  knoAv  oest,"  said  her  husband. 

A  sad  telling  it  was,  and  the  way  in  which  the  children 
took  it  touched  auntie's  loving  heart  to  the  quick.  They  were 
so  quiet  and  "pitiful,"  as  little  Sybil  said.  Floss's  face  grew 
white,  for,  with  a  child's  hasty  rush  at  conclusions,  she  fancied 
at  first  that  auntie  was  paving  the  Avay  for  the  worst  news  of  all. 

"Is  mamma  dead?"  she  whispered,  and  auntie's  "Oh,  no,  no, 
darling.  Not  so  bad  as  that,"  seemed  to  give  her  a  sort  of  crumb 
of  hope,  even  before  she  had  heard  all. 

And  Carrots  stood  beside  auntie's  knee,  clasping  his  little 
mother  Floss's  hand  tight,  and  looking  up  in  auntie's  face  with 
those  wonderful  eyes  of  his,  which  auntie  had  said  truly  one 
could  not  deceive;  and  when  he  had  been  told  all  there  was  to 
tell,  he  just  said  softly,  "Oh,  poor  mamma!  Auntie,  She  kissened 
us  so  many  times!" 

And  then,  which  auntie  was  on  the  whole  glad  of,  the  three 
children  sat  down  on  the  rug  together  and  cried;  Sybil  in  her 
sympathy,  as  heartily  as  the  others,  while  she  kept  kissing  and 
petting  them,  and  calling  them  by  every  endearing  name  she 
could  think  of. 

"When   will   there  be   another   letter,    auntie?"    said    Floss. 

"The  day  after  to-morrow,"  said  auntie.  "Your  father  will 
write  by  every  mail." 

In  her  own  heart  auntie  had  not  much  hope.  From  what 
Captain  Desart  said,   the  anxiety  was  not  likely  to  last  long. 


238  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

The  illness  had  taken  a  different  form  from  Mrs.  Desart's  other 
attacks.  "She  must  be  better  or  worse  in  a  day  or  two,"  he 
wrote,  and  auntie's  heart  sorely  misgave  her  as  to  which  it 
would  be. 

The  sorrowful  day  seemed  very  long  to  the  children.  They 
did  their  lessons  as  usual,  for  auntie  told  them  it  would  be  much 
better  to  do  so. 

"Would  it  please  mamma?"  said  Carrots;  and  when  auntie 
said  "Yes,  she  was  quite  sure  it  would,"  he  got  his  books  at 
once,  and  "tried"  even  harder  than  usual. 

But  after  lessons  they  had  no  heart  to  play,  and  there 
was  no  "must"  about  that.  By  bedtime  they  all  looked  worn 
out  with  crying  and  the  sort  of  strange  excitement  there  is 
about  great  sorrows — above  all  to  children — which  is  more  ex- 
hausting than  almost  anything. 

"This  will  never  do,"  thought  auntie.  "Hugh"  (that  was 
the  name  of  Sybil's  father)  "will  have  reason  to  think  I  should 
have  taken  his  advice,  and  not  told  them,  if  they  go  on  like  this." 

"Sybil,"  she  said,  "Floss  and  Carrots  will  make  themselves  ill 
before  the  next  letter  comes.     What  can  we  do  for  them?" 

Sybil  shook  her  head  despondently. 

"I  don't  know,  mother  dear,"  she  said;  "I've  got  out  all 
my  best  things  to  please  them,  but  it's  no  good."  She  stood  still 
for  a  minute,  then  her  face  lightened  up.  "Mother,"  she  said, 
'"aposing  you  were  to  read  aloud  some  of  those  stories  you're 
going  to  get  bounded  up  into  a  book  some  day?  They  would 
like  that." 

Floss  hardly  felt  as  if  she  would  care  to  hear  any  stories, 
however  pretty.  But  she  did  not  like  to  disappoint  kind  auntie 
by  saying  so,  especially  when  auntie  told  her  she  really  wanted 
to  know  if  she  and  Carrots  liked  her  stories,  as  it  would  help 
her  to  judge  if  other  children  would  care  for  them  when  they 
were  "bounded  up  into  a  book." 

So  the  next  day  auntie  read  them  some,  and  they  talked 


"CARROTS"  239 

them  over  and  got  quite  interested  in  them.  Fortunately,  she 
did  not  read  them  all  that  day,  for  the  next  day  there  was  still 
more  need  of  something  to  distract  the  children's  sorrowful 
thoughts,  as  the  looked-for  letter  did  not  come.  Auntie  would 
have  liked  to  cheer  the  children  hy  reminding  them  of  the  old 
sayings  that  "No  news  is  good  news,"  and  "It  is  ill  news  which 
flies  fast,"  but  she  dared  not,  for  her  own  heart  was  very  heavy  with 
anxiety.  And  she  was  very  glad  to  see  them  interested  in  the  rest 
of  the  stories  for  the  time. 

I  cannot  tell  you  these  stories,  hut  some  day  perhaps  you 
may  come  across  the  little  book  which  they  were  made  into.  But 
there  is  one  of  them  which  I  should  like  to  tell  you,  as  it  is  not 
very  long,  and  in  the  children's  mind  it  was  always  associated 
with  something  that  happened  just  as  auntie  had  finished  reading 
it.     For  it  was  the  last  of  her  little  stories,  and  it  was  called — 


CHAPTER  XII 

"the  two  funny  little  trots" 

"Like  to  a  double  cherry." 

A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

'  "Oh,  mamma,"  cried  I,  from  the  window  by  which  I  was 
standing,  to  my  mother  who  was  working  by  the  fire,  "do  come 
here  and  look  at  these  two  funny  little  trots."  ' 

Aunties  had  read  only  this  first  sentence  of  her  story  when 
Sybil  interrupted  her. 

"Mother  dear,"  she  said,  in  her  prim  little  way,  "before  you 
begin,  do  tell  us  one  thing.     Does  the  story  end  sadly?" 

Auntie  smiled.  "You  should  have  asked  me  before  I  had 
begun,  Sybil,"  she  said.  "But  never  mind  now.  I  don't  really 
think  I  can  tell  you  if  it  ends  sadly  or  not.  It  would  be  like 
telling  you  the  end  at  the  beginning,  and  it  would  spoil  the 
interest,   if  you  understand  what  that  means." 


240  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"Very  well,"  said  Sybil,  resignedly,  "then  I  suppose  I  must 
wait.  But  I  won't  like  it  if  it  ends  badly,  mother,  and  Floss 
won't,  and  Carrots  won't.    Will  you,  Floss  and  Carrots?" 

"I  don't  think  Floss  and  Carrots  can  say,  till  they've  heard 
it,"  said  auntie.  "Now,  Sybil,  you  musn't  interrupt  any  more. 
Where  was  I?  Oh,  yes"] — '  "do  come  and  look  at  these  two 
funny  little  trots." 

'My  mother  got  up  from  her  seat  and  came  to  the  window. 
She  could  not  help  smiling  when  she  saw  the  little  couple  I 
pointed  out  to  her. 

'  "Aren't  they  a  pair  of  fat  darlings?"  I  said.  "I  wonder 
if  they  live  in  our  terrace?" 

'We  knew  very  little  of  our  neighbors,  though  we  were  not 
living  in  London,  for  we  had  only  just  come  to  St.  Austin's. 
We  had  come  there  to  spend  the  winter,  as  it  was  a  mild  and 
sheltered  place,  for  I,  then  a  girl  of  sixteen,  had  been  in  delicate 
health  for  some  time.'  ["You  wouldn't  believe  it  to  see  me  now, 
Avould  you?"  said  auntie,  looking  up  at  the  children  with  a 
smile  on  her  pretty  young-looking  face,  but  it  was  quite  true, 
all  the  same.]  'I  was  my  mother's  only  girl,'  she  went  on,  turn- 
ing to  her  manuscript  again,  'and  she  was  a  widow,  so  you  can 
fancy  what  a  pet  I  was.  My  big  brothers  were  already  all  out  in 
the  world,  in  the  navy,  or  the  army,  or  at  college,  and  my  mother 
and  I  generally  lived  by  ourselves  in  a  country  village  much 
farther  north  than  St.  Austin's,  and  it  was  quite  an  event  to  us 
to  leave  our  own  home  for  several  months  and  settle  ourselves 
down  in  lodgings  in  a  strange  place. 

'It  seemed  a  very  strange  place  to  us,  for  we  had  not  a 
single  friend  or  acquaintance  in  it,  and  at  home  in  our  village  we 
knew  everybody,  and  everybody  knew  us,  from  the  clergyman 
down  to  farmer  Grinthwait's  sheep-dog,  and  nothing  happened 
without  our  knowing  it.  I  suppose  I  was  naturally  of  rather 
a  sociable  turn.  I  knew  my  mother  used  sometimes  in  fun  to 
call  me  "a   little  gossip,"   and   I   really  very   much   missed   the 


"CARROTS"  241 

sight  of  the  accustomed  friendly  faces.  We  had  been  two  days 
at  St.  Austin's,  and  I  had  spent  most  of  those  two  days  at  the 
window,  declaring  to  my  mother  that  I  should  not  feel  so 
"strange"  if  I  got  to  know  some  of  our  neighbours  by  sight,  if 
nothing  more. 

'But  hitherto  I  had  hardly  succeeded  even  in  this.  There 
did  not  seem  to  be  any  "neighbours"  in  the  passers-by;  they  were 
just  passers-by  who  never  seemed  to  pass  by  again,  and  without 
anything  particular  to  distinguish  them  if  they  did.  For  St. 
Austin's  was  a  busy  little  place,  and  our  house  was  on  the  South 
Esplanade,  the  favourite  "promenade"  for  the  visitors,  none  of 
whom,  gentlemen,  ladies,  or  children,  had  particularly  attracted 
me  till  the  morning  I  first  caught  sight  of  my  funny  little  trots. 

'I  do  think  they  would  have  attracted  any  one — any  one 
certainly  that  loved  children.  I  fancy  I  see  them  now,  the  two 
dears,  coming  slowly  and  solemnly  along,  each  with  a  hand  of 
their  nurse,  pulling  well  back  from  her,  as  if  the  effort  to  keep 
up,  even  with  her  deliberate  rate  of  walking,  was  almost  too  much 
for  their  fat  little  legs.  They  looked  exactly  the  same  size,  and 
were  alike  in  everything,  from  their  dresses — which  this  first  day 
were  brown  holland,  very  easy  about  the  bodies,  very  short  and 
bunchy  about  the  skirts — to  the  two  white  woolly  lambs,  clasped 
manfully  by  each  in  his  or  her  disengaged  hand.  Whether  they 
were  boys  or  girls  I  could  not  tell  in  the  least,  and  to  this  day 
I  do  not  know. 

'  "Aren't  they  darlings,  mamma?"  I  said. 

'  "They  certainly  are  two  funny  little  trots,"  she  replied 
with  a  smile,  using  my  own  expression. 

'Mamma  went  back  to  her  knitting,  but  I  stayed  by  the 
window,  watching  my  new  friends.  They  passed  slowly  up  the 
Esplanade,  my  eyes  following  them  till  they  were  out  of  sight, 
and  then  I  turned  away  regretfully. 

'  "They  are  sure  not  to  pass  again,"  I  said,  "and  they  are 
so  nice." 


242  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

'  "If  they  live  near  here,  very  likely  the  Esplanade  is  their 
daily  walk,  and  they  will  be  passing  back  again  in  a  few  min- 
utes," said  my  mother,  entering  into  my  fancy. 

T  took  up  her  suggestion  eagerly.  She  was  right:  in  about 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  my  trots  appeared  again,  this  time  from 
the  other  direction,  and,  as  good  luck  would  have  it,  just  opposite 
our  window,  their  nurse  happening  to  meet  an  acquaintance, 
they  came  to  a  halt! 

'  "Mamma,  mamma,"   I   exclaimed,   "here   they  are  again!" 

'Mamma  nodded  her  head  and  smiled  without  looking  up. 
She  was  just  then  counting  the  rows  of  her  knitting,  and  was 
afraid  of  losing  the  number.  I  pressed  my  face  close  to  the 
window — if  only  the  trots  would  look  my  way! — I  could  hardly 
resist  tapping  on  the  pane. 

'Suddenly  a  bright  thought  struck  me.  I  seized  Gip,  my 
little  dog,  who  was  asleep  on  the  hearth-rug,  and  held  him  up 
to  the  window. 

'  "T'ss,  Gip;  T'ss,  cat.     At  her;  at  her,"  I  exclaimed. 

'Poor  Gip  had  doubtless  been  having  delightful  dreams — it 
was  very  hard  on  him  to  be  waked  up  so  startlingly.  He 
blinked  his  eyes  and  tried  to  see  the  imaginary  cat — no  doubt  he 
thought  it  was  his  own  fault  he  did  not  succeed,  for  he  was  the 
most  humble-minded  and  unpresuming  of  little  dogs,  and  his 
faith  in  me  was  unbounded.  He  could  not  see  a  cat,  but  he  took 
it  for  granted  that  I  did;  so  he  set  to  work  barking  vigorously. 
That  was  just  what  I  wanted.  The  trots  heard  the  noise  and 
both  turned  round;  then  they  let  go  of  their  nurse's  hands  and 
made  a  little  journey  round  her  skirt  till  they  met. 

'  "Dot,"  said  one,  "pretty  doggie." 

'  "Doll,"  said  the  other,  both  speaking  at  once,  you  under- 
stand, "pretty  doggie." 

'I  don't  mean  to  say  that  I  heard  what  they  said,  I  only 
saw  it.     But  afterwards,  when  I  had  heard  their  voices,  I  felt 


"CARROTS"  243 

sure  that  was  what  they  had  said,  for  they  almost  always  spoke 
together. 

'Then  they  joined  their  disengaged  hands  (the  outside  hand 
of  each  still  clasping  its  woolly  lamb),  and  there  they  stood,  legs 
well  apart,  little  mouths  and  eyes  wide  open,  staring  with  the 
greatest  interest  and  solemnity  at  Gip  and  me.  At  Gip,  of 
course,  far  more  than  at  me.  Gip  was  a  dog,  I  was  only  a  girl! — 
quite  a  middle-aged  person,  no  doubt,  the  trots  thought  me, 
if  they  thought  about  me  at  all ;  perhaps  they  did  a  little,  as  I  was 
Gip's  owner;  for  I  was  sixteen,  and  they  could  not  have  been 
much  more  than  three. 

'But  all  this  time  they  were  so  solemn.  I  wanted  to  make 
them  laugh.  There  was  a  little  table  in  the  window — a  bow 
window,  of  course,  as  it  was  at  the  sea-side,  and  certain  to 
catch  winds  from  every  quarter  of  the  heavens — upon  which  I 
mounted  Gip,  and  set  to  work  putting  him  through  his  tricks. 
I  made  him  perform  "ready,  present,  fire"  with  a  leap  to  catch 
the  bit  of  biscuit  on  his  nose.  I  made  him  "beg,"  "lie  dead,"  like 
Mother  Hubbard's  immortal  pet,  and  do  everything  a  well- 
educated  dog  could  be  expected  to  do.  And,  oh,  how  funny  it 
was  to  watch  the  trots!  Evidently  they  had  never  seen  any- 
thing of  the  kind  before;  they  stared  at  first  as  if  they  could 
hardly  believe  their  eyes,  and  then  they  smiled,  and,  at  last,  they 
laughed.  How  prettily  they  laughed — they  looked  more  like  two 
fat  cherubs  than  ever. 

'But  their  laughing  attracted  their  maid's  attention.  She 
too  turned  round,  and  I  Avas  pleased  to  see  that  she  had  a  pleas- 
ant, pretty  young  face.  "I  shouldn't  have  liked  those  dear  trots 
to  have  a  cross  old  nurse,"  I  said  to  myself,  and  the  maid  still 
further  raised  herself  in  my  good  opinion  by  laughing  and  smiling 
too.  In  a  minute  or  two  when  she  thought  "that  was  enough  for 
to-day,"  she  stooped  and  whispered  to  the  trots  and  they  imme- 
diately lifted  their  little  hands,  the  right  of  one,  the  left  of  the  other 
— for  nothing,  you  see,  could  have  persuaded  them  to  let  go  of 


244  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

their  precious  lambs — to  their  rosy  mouths  and  blew  a  kiss  to  me, 
and  I  could  see  them  say,  "Zank  zou,  lady;  zank  zou,  doggie." 

'You  may  be  sure  I  kissed  my  hand  to  them  in  return,  and 
off  they  toddled,  each  with  a  hand  of  "Bessie,"  as  I  afterwards 
heard  them  call  their  maid,  and  hauling  back  manfully  as  before, 
which  gave  Bessie  the  look  of  a  very  large  steam-tug  convoying 
two  very  little  vessels. 

'I  watched  them  till  they  Avere  quite  out  of  sight.  Then 
I  turned  to  my  mother. 

'  "I  have  made  two  friends  here  anyway,  mamma,"  I  said. 
"The  trots  are  sure  to  stop  every  time  they  pass.  It  will  be 
something  to  watch  for." 

'Mamma  smiled.  She  was  pleased  to  see  vie  pleased  and  in- 
terested, for  she  had  been  beginning  to  fear  that  the  dulness  and 
strangeness  of  our  new  life  would  prevent  St.  Austin's  doing  me 
as  much  good  as  she  had  hoped. 

'  "To-morrow,  dear,"  she  said,  "if  it  is  fine,  I  hope  you  will 
be  able  to  go  a  little  walk,  and  we'll  look  out  for  your  little 
friends." 

'It  was  fine  the  next  day,  and  we  did  go  out,  and  we  did 
meet  the  trots! 

'They  caught  sight  of  me  (of  Gip,  rather,  I  should  perhaps 
say)  and  I  of  them,  just  about  the  same  moment.  I  saw  them 
tug  their  nurse,  and  when  they  got  close  up  to  me  they  stopped 
short.  It  was  no  use  Bessie's  trying  to  get  them  on;  there  they 
stood  resolutely,  till  the  poor  girl's  face  grew  red,  and  she  looked 
quite  ashamed.  Gip,  who  I  must  say,  had  a  wonderful  amount 
of  tact,  ran  up  to  them  with  a  friendly  little  bark.  Bessie  let 
go  the  trots'  hands  and  stooped  to  stroke  him. 

'  "He  won't  bite,  miss,  will  he?"  she  said  gently,  looking 
up  at  me. 

'  "Oh,  dear,  no,"  I  said,  and  the  trots,  smiling  with  delight, 
stooped — not  that  they  had  so  very  far  to  stoop — to  stroke 
him  too. 


"CARROTS"  245 

'"Pretty  doggie,"  said  Doll. 

'  "Pretty  doggie,"  said  Dot. 

'Then  they  held  up  their  dear  little  mouths  to  kiss  me. 
"Zank  zou,  lady,"  they  said,  and  each  taking  a  hand  of  Bessie 
again,  they  proceeded  on  their  way. 

'After  that  day,  not  many  passed  without  my  seeing  them, 
and  talking  to  them,  and  making  Gip  show  off  his  tricks.  Some- 
times our  meetings  were  at  the  window,  sometimes  on  the  road; 
once  or  twice,  when  there  came  some  unusually  fine  mild  days, 
mamma  let  me  sit  out  on  the  shore,  and  I  taught  the  trots  to 
dig  a  hole  for  Gip  and  bury  him  in  the  sand,  all  but  his  bright 
eyes  and  funny  black  nose — that  was  a  beautiful  game!  I  never 
found  out  exactly  where  my  friends  lived;  it  was  in  one  of  the 
side  streets  leading  on  to  the  Esplanade,  that  was  all  I  knew. 
I  never  knew,  as  I  said,  if  they  were  boys  or  girls,  or  perhaps 
one  of  each.  Mamma  wanted  one  day  to  ask  Bessie,  but  I 
wouldn't  let  her.  They  were  just  my  two  little  trots,  that  was 
all  I  wanted  to  know. 

'  "It  would  spoil  them  to  fancy  them  growing  up  into  great 
boys  or  girls,"  I  said.  "I  want  them  to  be  always  trots — 
nothing   else." 

'And  as  Bessie  called  them  simply  Doll  and  Dot,  without  any 
"master"  or  "miss,"  I  was  able  to  keep  my  fancy. 

'When  the  weather  grew  colder,  the  trots  came  out  in  a 
new  costume — sealskin  coats,  sealskin  caps,  and  sealskin  gloves— 
they  were  just  little  balls  of  sealskin,  and  looked  "trottier"  than 
ever.  About  this  time  they  left  off  carrying  their  woolly  lambs. 
I  suspect  the  real  reason  was  that  their  extreme  affection  for 
the  lambs  had  resulted  in  these  favoured  animals  growing  more 
black  than  white,  and  that  Bessie  judged  them  unfit  for  appear- 
ing in  public,  but  if  this  was  the  case,  evidently  Bessie  had  been 
obliged  to  resort  to  artifice  to  obtain  their  owners'  consent  to  the 
lambs  being  left  at  home.     For,  when  I  asked  the  trots  where 


246  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

the   precious   creatures   were,   they   looked   melancholy   and   dis- 
tressed and  shook  their  heads. 

"Too  told!"  said  Doll,  and  Dot  repeated,  like  a  mournful 
echo,  "too  told!" 

'  "Of  course,"  said  I,  "how  stupid  of  me  not  to  think  of 
it!  of  course  it's  far  too  cold  for  such  very  little  lambs  to  be  out." 

'Bessie  looked  gratefully  at  me.  "We're  going  to  buy  some 
cakes  for  tea,"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  and  sure  enough  in  about 
half  an  hour  the  trio  appeared  again,  and  came  to  a  standstill 
as  usual,  opposite  our  window.  And,  instead  of  a  lamb,  each 
trot  hugged  a  little  parcel,  neatly  done  up  in  white  paper.  I 
opened  the  window  to  hear  what  they  were  saying,  they  looked 
so  excited. 

'  "Takes  for  tea,"  they  both  called  out  at  once,  "takes  for 
tea.     Lady  have  one.     Dip  have  one." 

'And  poor  Bessie  was  obliged  to  open  the  parcels,  and 
extract  one  "take"  from  each  and  hand  them  up  to  me,  before 
my  little  dears  would  be  satisfied. 

'Can  you  fancy  that  I  really  got  to  love  the  trots?  I  did 
not  want  to  know  who  they  were,  or  what  sort  of  a  father  and 
mother  they  had — they  were  well  taken  care  of,  that  was  evident, 
for  somehow,  knowing  anything  more  about  them  would  have 
spoilt  them  for  being  my  funny  little  trots. 

'But,  for  several  weeks  of  the  three  months  we  spent  at 
St.  Austin's,  the  sight  of  these  happy  little  creatures  was  one 
of  my  greatest  pleasures,  and  a  day  without  a  glimpse  of  them 
would  have  seemed  blank  and  dull. 

'There  came  a  time,  however,  when  for  many  days  I  did 
not  see  my  little  friends.  The  weather  was  bad  just  then,  and 
mamma  said  she  was  sure  they  had  got  colds,  that  would  be  all 
that  was  wrong  with  them,  but  somehow  I  felt  uneasy.  I  asked 
our  doctor,  when  he  called,  if  there  was  much  illness  about,  and 
he,  fancying  I  was  nervous  on  my  own  account  replied,  "Oh, 
no,  with  the  exception  of  two  or  three  cases  of  croup,  he  had  no 


"CARROTS"  247 

serious  ailments  among  his  patients :  it  was  a  very  healthy  season." 

'I  got  frightened  at  the  idea  of  croup,  and  cross-questioned 
him  to  discover  if  my  trots  were  among  the  sufferers,  but  he 
shook  his  head.  All  his  little  patients  were  mere  infants;  he  did 
not  even  know  the  trots  by  sight. 

'Then  mamma  suggested  another  very  reasonable  explana- 
tion of  their  disappearance. 

'  "Ihey  have  probably  left  St.  Austin's,"  she  said.  "Many 
people  come  here  for  only  the  very  worst  of  the  winter,  and  that 
is  about  over  now." 

'But  even  this  did  not  satisfy  me.  I  was  certain  something 
Avas  wrong  with  Doll  and  Dot,  and  I  wasted,  I  should  be 
ashamed  to  say  how  many  hours,  gazing  out  of  the  window  in 
hopes  of  catching  sight  of  the  familiar  little  figures. 

'At  last,  one  day,  when  I  had  almost  left  off  hoping  ever  to 
see  them  again,  suddenly,  two  figures  appeared  on  the  Esplanade, 
a  stone's  throw  from  our  window. 

'Who  were  they?  Could  it  be — yes,  it  must  be  one  of  the 
trots,  led  by,  not  Bessie,  no,  this  maid  was  a  stranger.  Where 
could  Bessie  be?  And  oh,  where  was  my  other  little  trot?  For, 
even  at  some  yards'  distance,  I  saw  something  sadly  different  in 
the  appearance  of  the  one  little  figure,  slowly  coming  along  in 
our  direction.  It  was  dressed — hat,  coat,  gloves,  socks  and  all — 
it  was  dressed  in  deep  mourning. 

T  seized  my  hat  and  rushed  out  to  meet  them.  Mamma 
thought  I  was  going  out  of  my  mind  I  believe.  When  I  found 
myself  out  in  the  open  air,  I  tried  to  control  myself  and  look 
like  the  rest  of  the  people  walking  quietly  along,  though  my 
heart  was  beating  violently,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  could  not  speak 
without  crying.  But  when  I  got  up  to  the  one  little  trot  and 
its  attendant,  the  sight  of  her  strange  face  composed  me.  She  was  so 
different  from  Bessie — old  and  stiff  and  prim-looking.  I 
stooped  to  kiss  the  child,  Dot  or  Doll,  I  knew  not  which.  "How 
are  you,  darling?"  I  said,  "And  where  is "     I  stopped  short. 


248  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

'The  trot  looked  up  in  my  face. 

'  "Oh,  lady,"  it  said,  "Dot  is  all  alone.  Doll  is  done  to 
'Ebben,"  and  the  great  tears  gathered  in  Dot's  mournful  eyes 
and  rolled  down  Dot's  rosy  cheeks. 

'  "Hush,  hush,  my  dear.  You  mustn't  cry.  You'll  make 
yourself  ill  if  you  cry  any  more,"  said  the  hard-looking  nurse. 

'A  moment  before,  I  had  intended  turning  to  her  and  ask- 
ing for  some  particulars  of  the  baby's  sad  words,  but  now  I 
felt  I  could  not.  She  was  so  stiff  and  unsympathising.  I  could 
not  bear  her  to  see  me,  a  stranger,  crying  about  what  I  had 
heard.  Besides,  what  good  would  it  do?  Why  should  I  hear 
any  more?  I  shrank  from  doing  so.  The  bare  fact  was  enough. 
I  just  bent  down  and  kissed  the  solitary  darling. 

'  "Good-bye,  my  trot,"  I  said.    I  could  not  say  another  word. 

'  "Dood-bye,  don't  ky,"  said  Dot,  stroking  my  cheek.  "Doll 
won't  turn  back,  but  Dot  will  do  to  'Ebben  too  some  day." 

'That  was  quite  too  much  for  me.  I  turned  away  and 
hurried  back  home  as  fast  as  I  could. 

'  "Mamma,"  I  exclaimed,  rushing  into  our  sitting-room,  and 
throwing  myself  down  on  the  sofa,  "it's  just  what  I  thought. 
I  wish  you  would  come  away  from  St.  Austin's  at  once.  I  shall 
never,  never  like  it  again." 

'  "What  is  the  matter,  Florence?"  said  poor  mamma,  quite 
startled. 

'  "It's  about  the  trots,"  I  said,  now  fairly  sobbing,  "I  have 
just  seen  one — in  deep  mourning,  mamma, — and — and — the 
other  one  is  dead." 

'  "Poor  little  angel!"  said  mamma.  And  the  tears  came 
into  her  eyes  too. 

'I  did  not  see  Dot  again  after  that  day.  I  fancy  that  was 
its  last  walk  before  leaving  St.  Austin's  for  its  regular  home, 
wherever  that  was.     And  a  very  short  time  after,  we  ourselves 

left  too. 

******* 


"CARROTS"  249 

'I  never  forgot  the  trots.  Of  course  the  pleasure  of  going 
back  to  our  own  dear  home  again,  and  seeing  all  our  old  friends, 
raised  my  spirits,  and  softened  the  real  grief  I  had  felt.  But 
whenever  we  spoke  of  St.  Austin's,  or  people  asked  me  about 
it,  and  mentioned  the  Esplanade  or  the  shore,  or  any  of  the 
places  where  I  had  seen  the  trots,  the  tears  would  come  into 
my  eyes,  as  again  I  seemed  to  see  before  me  the  two  dear  funny 
little  figures.  And  whenever  our  plans  for  the  following  winter 
were  alluded  to,  I  always  said  one  thing:  "Wherever  you  go, 
mamma,  don't  go  to  St.  Austin's." 

'My  mother  gave  in  to  me.  When  did  she  not?  How  patient 
she  was  with  me,  how  sympathising,  even  in  my  fancies!  And 
how  unselfish — it  was  not  till  long  after  we  had  left  St.  Austin's, 
that  she  told  me  what  anxiety  she  had  gone  through  on  hearing 
of  my  having  kissed  Dot.  For  how  sadly  prdba'ble  it  seemed 
that  Doll  had  died  of  some  infectious  illness,  such  as  scarlet- 
fever,   for  instance,  which   I   had  never  had! 

'  "But  Dot  couldn't  have  been  ill,  mamma,"  I  said.  "Dot 
looked  perfectly  well." 

'  "Did  he?"  said  my  mother.  Sometimes  she  called  the 
trots  "he"  and  sometimes  "she,"  in  the  funniest  way!  "I  wonder 
Avhat  the  other  little  dear  died  of?" 

'  "So  do  I,"  I  replied.  "Still,  on  the  whole,  I  think  I  am 
just  as  well  pleased  not  to  know." 

'Our  uncertainty  for  the  next  winter  ended  in  what  was  to 
me  a  delightful  decision.  We  determined  to  go  to  the  South  of 
France.  I  could  amuse  you  children  by  a  description  of  our 
journey — journeys  in  those  days  really  were  much  more  amus- 
ing than  now;  but  I  must  hasten  on  to  the  end  of  my  story.  We 
had  fixed  upon  Pau  as  our  headquarters,  and  we  arrived  there 
early  in  November.  What  a  different  thing  from  our  November 
at  home!  I  could  hardly  believe  it  was  November;  it  would  have 
seemed  to  me  far  less  wonderful  to  have  been  told  I  had  been 
asleep   for  six  months,  and  that  really  it  was   May,   and  not 


250  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

November  at  all,  than  to  have  awakened  as  I  did,  that  first 
morning  after  our  arrival,  and  to  have  seen  out  of  the  window 
the  lovely  sunshine  and  bright  blue  sky,  and  summer-look  of 
warmth,  and  comfort,  and  radiance! 

'We  had  gone  to  an  hotel  for  a  few  days,  intending  to  look 
out  for  a  little  house,  or  apartement  (which,  children,  does  not 
mean  the  same  thing  as  our  English  lodgings  by  any  means),  at 
our  leisure.  Your  grandmother  was  not  rich,  and  the  coming 
so  far  cost  a  great  deal.  The  hotel  we  had  been  recommended 
to  was  a  very  comfortable  one  though  not  one  of  the  most  fash- 
ionable, and  the  landlord  was  very  civil,  as  some  friend  who  had 
stayed  with  him  the  year  before  "had  written  about  our  coming. 
He  showed  us  our  rooms  himself,  and  hoped  we  should  like  them, 
and  then  he  turned  back  to  say  he  trusted  we  should  not  be  dis- 
turbed by  the  voices  of  some  children  in  the  next  "salon."  He 
would  not  have  risked  it,  he  said,  had  he  been  able  to  help  it, 
but  there  were  no  other  rooms  vacant,  and  the  family  with  the 
children  were  leaving  the  next  day.  Not  that  they  were  noisy 
children  by  any  means ;  they  were  very  chers  petits,  but  there  were 
ladies,  to  whom  the  very  name  of  children  in  their  vicinity  was — 
here  the  landlord  held  up  his  hands  and  made  a  grimace! 

■  c  "Then  they  must  be  old  maids !"  I  said,  laughing,  "which 
mamma  and  I  are  not.  We  love  children,"  at  which  Mr.  Land- 
lord bowed  and  smiled,  and  said  something  complimentary  about 
mademoiselle  being  so  "aimable." 

'I  listened  for  the  children's  voices  that  evening,  and  once 
or  twice  I  heard  their  clear  merry  tones.  But  as  for  any  "dis- 
turbance," one  might  as  well  have  complained  of  a  cuckoo  in  the 
distance,  as  of  anything  we  heard  of  our  little  neighbours.  We 
did  not  see  them ;  only  once,  as  I  was  running  along  the  passage, 
I  caught  a  glimpse  at  the  other  end  of  a  little  pinafored  figure 
led  by  a  nurse,  disappearing  through  a  doorway.  I  did  not 
see  its  face;  in  fact  the  glimpse  was  of  the  hastiest.  Yet  some- 
thing about  the  wee  figure,  a  certain  round-about  bunchiness,  and 


"CARROTS"  251 

a  sort  of  pulling  back  from  the  maid,  as  she  went  into  the  room, 
recalled  vaguely  to  my  heart,  rather  than  to  my  mind,  two  little 
toddling  creatures,  that  far  away  across  the  sea  I  had  learnt  to 
love  and  look  for.  When  I  went  into  our  room,  there  were  tears 
in  my  eyes,  and  when  mamma  asked  me  the  reason,  I  told  her 
that  I  had  seen  a  child  that  somehow  had  reminded  me  of  my  two 
little  trots. 

'  "Poor  little  trots,"  said  mamma.  "I  wonder  if  the  one 
that  was  left  still  misses  the  other?" 

'But  that  was  all  we  said  about  them. 

'The  next  morning  I  was  in  a  fever  to  go  out  and  see  all 
that  was  to  be  seen.  I  dragged  poor  mamma  into  all  the  churches, 
and  half  the  shops,  and  would  have  had  her  all  through  the  castle 
too,  but  that  she  declared  she  could  do  no  more.  So  we  came  to  a 
halt  at  the  great  "Place,"  and  sat  down  on  a  nice  shady  seat  to 
watch  the  people,  I  consoling  myself  with  the  reflection  that,  as 
we  were  to  be  four  months  at  Pau,  there  was  still  a  little  time  left 
for  sight-seeing. 

'It  was  very  amusing.  There  were  people  of  all  nations — 
children  of  all  nations,  little  French  boys  and  girls,  prettily  but 
simply  dressed,  some  chatting  merrily,  some  walking  primly  be- 
side their  white-capped  bonnes;  little  Russians,  looking  rather 
grand,  but  not  so  grand  as  their  nurses  in  their  rich  costumes  of 
bright  scarlet  and  blue,  embroidered  in  gold;  some  Americans, 
and  a  few  unmistakable  English.  We  amused  ourselves  by 
guessing  the  nationality  of  all  these  little  people. 

'  "Those  are  Italians  or  Spaniards,  mamma,  look  what  dark 

eyes  they  have,  and  those  are "     I  suddenly  stopped.     "Oh, 

mamma!"  I  exclaimed,  and  when  she  looked  at  me,  she  saw  I  had 
grown  quite  pale,  and  in  another  moment,  seeing  to  what  I  was 
pointing,  she  understood  the  reason.  There,  right  before  us, 
coming  slowly  up  the  middle  of  the  Place,  Bessie  in  the  middle, 
each  child  with  a  hand  of  hers  tugging  back  manfully  in  the  old 


252  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

way,  each,  yes,  really,  each  under  the  other  arm  hugging  a  woolly 
lamb,  came  the  two  funny  little  trots! 

'I  felt  at  first  as  if  I  were  dreaming.  Could  it  be  the  trots? 
I  sat  still  in  a  half  stupid  way,  staring,  but  Gip — I  was  forgetting 
to  tell  you  that  of  course  Gip  had  come  with  us  to  Pau — Gip  had 
far  more  presence  of  mind  than  I.  He  did  not  stop  to  wonder  how 
it  could  be  the  trots,  he  was  simply  satisfied  that  it  was  the  trots, 
and  forward  he  darted,  leaping,  barking  furiously,  wagging  his 
tail,  giving  every  sort  of  welcome  in  dog  language,  that  he  could 
think  of. 

'  "Dip,  Dip ;  see  Bessie,  here  is  a  doggie  like  Dip,"  said 
one  trot. 

'  "Dip,  Dip,  pretty  Dip,"  said  the  other. 

'The  sound  of  their  voices  seemed  to  bring  back  my  common 
sense.  They  were  my  own  dear  trots.  "Dip,  Dip"  would  have  satis- 
fied me,  even  if  I  had  not  seen  them.  The  trots  never  could  manage 
the  letter  "G"!  I  flew  forward,  and  kneeling  down  on  the 
ground,  little  caring  how  I  soiled  my  nice  new  dress,  or  what 
the  people  on  the  Place  thought  of  me,  I  regularly  hugged  my 
two  pets. 

'  "Here  is  Dip's  kind  lady  too,"  they  both  said  at  once,  smil- 
ing and  happy,  but  not  by  any  means  particularly  surprised  to 
see  me.  I  looked  up  at  Bessie  at  last,  and  held  out  my  hand.  She 
shook  it  heartily. 

■  "I  am  pleased  to  see  you  again,  miss,  to  be  sure;  who  would 
have  thought  it?"  she  said.  "And  they  haven't  forgot  you, 
haven't  Doll  and  Dot.  They  are  ahvays  speaking  of  Gip  and 
you,  miss." 

'  "But,  Bessie,"  I  began,  and  then  I  hesitated.  How  could 
I  tell  her  what  I  had  thought?  "How  was  it  you  left  St.  Austin's 
so  suddenly?" — the  trots  were  not  in  mourning  now,  they  were 
prettily  dressed  in  dark  blue  sailor  serge,  as  bunchy  as  ever. 

'Bessie  thought  for  a  minute. 

'  "Let  me  see,"  she  said,   "oh,  yes,   I  remember!     We  did 


"CARROTS"  253 

leave  suddenly.  My  mistress's  father  died,  and  she  was  sent  for 
off  to  Edinburgh,  and  she  took  Doll  and  me,  and  left  Dot  to  keep 
her  papa  company.  Master  said  he'd  be  lost  without  one  of  them, 
and  he  couldn't  get  off  to  Edinburgh  for  a  fortnight  after  us. 
But  we'll  never  try  that  again,  miss.  Dot  did  nothing  but  cry 
for  Doll,  and  Doll  for  Dot.  Dot,  so  Martha  the  housemaid  said, 
was  always  saying,  'Doll's  done  to  'Ebben,'  till  it  was  pitiful  to 
hear,  and  Dot  was  just  as  bad  in  Edinburgh  about  Doll." 

1  "But  Dot  did  do  to  'Ebben,"  said  Doll,  who  as  well  as  Dot 
was  listening  to  what  Bessie  was  saying.  "And  then  Doll 
tummed  to  'Ebben  too,"  said  Dot,  "and  then  'Ebben  was  nice." 

I  kissed  the  pets  again,  partly  to  prevent  Bessie  seeing  the 
tears  in  my  eyes.  I  understood  it  all  now,  without  asking  any 
more,  and  Bessie  never  knew  what  it  was  I  had  thought. 

'Only  you  can  fancy  how  sorry  I  was  to  find  the  trots  were 
leaving  Pau  that  very  afternoon!  They  were  the  children  whose 
dear  little  voices  I  had  heard  through  the  wall,  who  the  landlord  had 
feared  might  disturb  us!  They  were  going  on  to  Italy  for  the 
Avinter. 

'  "If  only  I  had  known  last  night  who  they  were,"  I  said 
to  mamma  regretfully. 

'Mamma,  however,  was  always  wise.  "Think  rather,"  she 
said,  "how  very  glad  you  should  be  to  know  it  this  morning. 
And  who  can  tell  but  what  some  time  or  other  you  may  see  the 
trots  again." 

'But  I  never  did!' 


254  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

CHAPTER  XIII 

GOOD    ENDINGS 

But   I   lost   my  happy   childhood. 
***** 

It  slipped  from  me  you  shall  know, 

It  was  in  the  dewy  alleys 

Of  the  land  of  long  ago. 

***** 

Not  in  sadness, 
Nor  reproach,  these  words  I  say, 
God  is  good,  and  gives  new  gladness, 
When  the  old  he  takes  away. 

"You  never  did?  Oh,  what  a  pity!"  exclaimed  Sybil.  "You 
really  never,  never  did,  mother?" 

Auntie  looked  rather  "funny,"  as  the  children  call  it. 

"As  trots  I  never  saw  them  again,"  she  said,  "and  at  the 
time  I  wrote  out  that  story  I  had  not  seen  them  again  at  all." 

"But  you've  seen  them  since,"  cried  all  the  three  children 
at  once,  "you've  seen  them  since  they've  grown  big.  Oh,  auntie, 
oh,  mother,  do  tell  us." 

"I  couldn't  just  now,  truly  I  couldn't,"  said  auntie,  "it 
would  lead  me  into  another  story  which  isn't  written  yet.  AJ1 
that  I  know  about  'the  two  funny  little  trots'  I  have  told  you. 
Do  you  like  it?" 

"Awfully,"  said  Sybil. 

"Very  much,"  said  Floss. 

"It's  lovely,"  said  Carrots. 

Auntie  smiled  at  the  children.  They  looked  so  pleased  and 
interested,  it  was  evident  that  for  the  time  they  had  forgotten 
their  sorrow  and  anxiety.  Suddenly,  just  as  she  was  thinking 
sadly  how  soon  it  must  return  to  their  minds,  there  came  a  loud 
ring  at  the  bell.  They  all  started,  they  had  been  sitting  so 
quietly. 

"It  must  be  the  post,"  said  Sybil.     Auntie  had  thought  so 


"CARROTS"  255 

too,  but  had  not  said  it,  as  it  was  very  unlikely  this  post  would 
bring  any  letter  from  Captain  Desart. 

It  did  however!  Fletcher  appeared  with  one  in  another 
minute;  the  thin  large  envelope,  and  the  black,  rather  scrawly 
writing  that  Floss  and  Carrots  knew  so  well.  It  would  have 
been  no  use  trying  to  conceal  it  from  them,  so  auntie  opened  it 
quietly,  though  her  fingers  trembled  as  she  did  so.  She  read 
it  very  quickly,  it  was  not  a  long  letter,  and  then  she  looked  up 
with  the  tears  in  her  eyes.  "Children,  dear  children,"  she  said, 
"it  is  good  news.  Your  dear  mother  is  a  little  better,  and  they 
have  good  hopes  of  her." 

Oh  how  glad  they  were!  They  kissed  auntie  and  Sybil  and 
each  other,  and  it  seemed  as  if  a  great  heavy  stone  had  been 
lifted  off  their  hearts.  There  was  still  of  course  reason  for 
anxiety,  but  there  was  hope,  "good  hope,"  wrote  Captain  Desart, 
and  what  does  not  that  mean?  Auntie  felt  so  hopeful  herself 
that  she  could  not  find  it  in  her  heart  to  check  the  children  for 
being  so. 

"It  is  because  you  made  the  story  of  the  trots  end  nicely 
that  that  nice  letter  came,"  said  Sybil,  and  nothing  that  her 
mother  could  say  would  persuade  her  that  she  had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  ending,  that  she  had  just  told  it  as  it  really  hap- 
pened! 

J  am  telling  you  the  story  of  Floss  and  Carrots  as  it  really 
happened  too,  and  I  am  so  glad  that  it — the  story  of  this  part 
of  their  young  lives,  that  is  to  say — ends  happily  too.  Their 
mother  did  get  better,  wonderfully  better,  and  was  able  to  come 
back  to  England  in  the  spring,  looking  stronger  than  for  many 
years.  To  England,  but  not  to  Sandyshore.  Captain  Desart 
got  another  appointment  much  farther  south,  where  the  climate 
was  milder  and  better  and  the  winters  not  to  be  dreaded  for  a 
delicate  person.     So  they  all  left  the  Cove  House! 

Their  new  home  was  of  course  by  the  sea  too,  but  Carrots 
never  would  allow  that  it  was  the  same  sea.     His  own  old  sea 


256  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

stayed  behind  at  Sandyshore,  though  if  he  were  to  go  to  look 
for  it  there  now  I  doubt  if  he  would  find  it.  When  old  friends 
once  get  away  into  the  country  of  long  ago,  they  are  hard  to 
find  again — we  learn  to  doubt  if  they  are  to  be  found  anywhere 
except  in  their  own  corners  of  our  memory. 

And  it  is  long  ago  now  since  the  days  when  Carrots  and 
his  dear  Floss  ran  races  on  the  sands  and  made  "plans"  to- 
gether. Long  ago,  in  so  far  that  you  would  not  be  able  any- 
where to  find  these  children  whom  I  loved  so  much,  and  whom 
I  have  told  you  a  little  about.  You  would,  at  least  I  hope  you 
would,  like  to  know  what  became  of  them,  how  they  grew  up, 
and  what  Carrots  did  when  he  got  to  be  a  man.  But  this  I 
cannot  now  tell  you,  for  my  little  book  is  long  enough — I  only 
hope  you  are  not  tired  of  it — only  I  may  tell  you  one  thing.  If 
any  of  you  know  a  very  good,  kind,  gentle,  brave  man — so  good 
that  he  cannot  but  be  kind;  so  brave  that  he  cannot  but  be 
gentle,  I  should  like  you  to  think  that,  perhaps,  whatever  he  is 
— clergyman,  doctor,  soldier,  sailor,  it  doesn't  matter  in  the  least 
— perhaps  when  that  man  was  a  boy,  he  was  my  little  Carrots. 
Especially  if  he  has  large  "doggy-looking,"  brown  eyes,  and  hair 
that  once  might  have  been  called  "red." 


MARY  ANN  JOLLY 


"But  I  lost  my  poor  little  doll,  dears, 
As  I  played  in  the  heath  one  day; 
And  I  cried  for  her  more  than  a  week,  dears" — 


They  say  that  the  world — and  of  course  that  means  the 
people  in  it — has  changed  very  much  in  the  last  half  century  or 
so.  I  dare  say  in  some  ways  this  is  true,  but  it  is  not  in 
all.  There  are  some  ways  in  which  I  hope  and  think  people 
will  never  change  much.  Hearts  will  never  change,  I  hope — 
good,  kind  hearts  who  love  and  trust  each  other  I  mean;  and 
little  children,  they  surely  will  always  be  found  the  same, — 
simple  and  faithful,  happy  and  honest;  why,  the  very  word 
childlike  would  cease  to  have  any  meaning  were  the  natures  it 
describes  to  alter. 

Looking  back  over  more  than  fifty  years  to  a  child  life  then, 
far  away  from  here,  flowing  peacefully  on,  I  recognise  the  same 
nature,  the  same  innocent,  unsuspicious  enjoyment,  the  same 
quaint,  so-called  "old-fashioned"  ways  that  now-a-days  I  find  in 
the  children  growing  up  about  me.  The  little  ones  of  to-day 
enjoy  a  shorter  childhood,  there  is  more  haste  to  hurry  them 
forward  in  the  race — we  would  almost  seem  to  begrudge  them 
their  playtime — but  that  I  think  is  the  only  real  difference.  My 
darlings  are  children  after  all;  they  love  the  sunshine  and  the 
flowers,  mud-pies  and  mischief,  dolls  and  story-books,  as  fer- 
vently as  ever.     And  long  may  they  do  so! 

My  child  of  fifty  j^ears  ago  was  in  all  essentials  a  real 
child.  Yet  again,  in  some  particulars,  she  was  exceptional,  and 
exceptionally  placed.     She  had  never  travelled  fifty  miles  from 

257 


258  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

her  home,  and  that  home  was  far  away  in  the  country,  in  Scot- 
land. And  a  Scottish  country  home  in  those  days  was  far  removed 
from  the  bustle  and  turmoil  and  excitement  of  the  great  haunts 
of  men.  Am  I  getting  beyond  you,  children  dear?  Am  I  using 
words  and  thinking  thoughts  you  can  scarcely  follow?  Well,  I 
won't  forget  again.  I  will  tell  you  my  simple  story  in  sim- 
ple words. 

This  long-ago  little  girl  was  named  Janet.  She  was  the 
youngest  of  several  brothers  and  sisters,  some  of  whom,  when  she 
was  born  even,  were  already  out  in  the  world.  They  were,  on  the 
whole,  a  happy,  united  family;  they  had  their  troubles,  and  dis- 
agreements perhaps  too,  sometimes,  but  in  one  thing  they  all 
joined,  and  that  was  in  loving  and  petting  little  Janet.  How 
well  she  remembers  even  now,  all  across  the  long  half  century, 
how  the  big  brothers  would  dispute  as  to  which  of  them  should 
carry  her  in  her  flowered  chintz  dressing-gown,  perched  like  a 
tiny  queen  on  their  shoulders,  to  father's  and  mother's  room  to 
say  good-morning;  how  on  Hallowe'en  the  rosiest  apples  and 
finest  nuts  were  for  "wee  Janet";  how  the  big  sisters  would 
work  for  hours  at  her  dolls'  clothes;  how,  dearest  memory  of 
all,  the  kind,  often  careworn,  studious  father  would  read  aloud 
to  her,  hour  after  hour,  as  she  lay  on  the  hearth-rug,  coiled 
up  at  his  feet. 

For  little  Janet  could  not  read  much  to  herself.  She  was 
not  blind,  but  her  sight  was  imperfect,  and  unless  the  greatest 
care  had  been  taken  she  might,  by  the  time  she  grew  up,  have 
lost  it  altogether.  To  look  at  her  you  would  not  have  known 
there  was  anything  wrong  with  her  blue  eyes;  the  injury  was  the 
result  of  an  accident  in  her  infancy,  by  which  one  of  the  delicate 
sight  nerves  had  been  hurt,  though  not  so  as  to  prevent  the  hope 
of  cure.  But  for  several  years  she  was  hardly  allowed  to  use 
her  eyes  at  all.  She  used  to  wear  a  shade  whenever  she  was  in 
a  bright  light,  and  she  was  forbidden  to  read,  or  to  sew,  or 
to  do  anything  which  called  for  much  seeing.     How  she  learnt 


MARY  ANN  JOLLY  259 

to  read  I  do  not  know — I  do  not  think  she  could  have  told 
you  herself — but  still  it  is  certain  that  she  did  learn;  perhaps 
her  kind  father  taught  her  this,  and  many  more  things  than 
either  he  or  she  suspected  in  the  long  hours  she  used  to  lie  by  his 
study  fire,  sometimes  talking  to  him  in  the  intervals  of  his 
writing,  sometimes  listening  with  intense  eagerness  to  the  legends 
and  ballads  'his  heart  delighted  in,  sometimes  only  making  stories 
to  herself  as  she  sat  on  the  hearth-rug  playing  with  her  dolls. 

There  are  many  quaint  little  stories  of  this  long-ago  maiden 

that  you  would  like  to  hear,  I  think.     One  comes  back  to  my 

mind  as  I  write.     It  is  about  a  mysterious  holly  bush  in  the 

garden  of  Janet's  home,  which  one  year  took  it  into   its  head 

to  grow  all  on  one  side,  in  the  queerest  way  you  ever  saw.    This 

holly  bush  stood  in  a  rather  conspicuous  position,  just  outside 

the  breakfast-room  window,   and  Janet's   father  was   struck  by 

the  peculiar  crookedness  wbich  afflicted  it,  and  one  morning  he 

went    out    to    examine    it    more    closely.      He    soon    found    the 

reason — the  main  branch  had  been  stunted  by  half  an  orange 

skin,   which  had  been  fitted   upon   it   most   neatly   and   closely, 

like  a  cap,  just  where  it  was  sprouting  most  vigorously.     Janet's 

father  was  greatly  surprised.     "Dear  me,  dear  me,"  he  exclaimed 

as  he  came  in,  "wlhat  a  curious  thing.     How  could  this  ever  have 

got  on  to  the  holly  bush?     An  old  orange  skin,  you  see,"   he 

went  on,  holding  it  up  to  the  assembled  family  party.     Little 

Janet  Avas  there,  in  her  usual  place  by  her  father's  chair. 

"Was  it  on  the  robin's  bush,  father?"     She  asked. 

"The  robin's  bush,  Janet?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"The  bush  the  wee  robin  perches  on  when  he  comes  to  sing  in 

the  morning,"  she  answered  readily.     "A  long,  long  time  ago, 

I  tied  an  orange  skin  on,  to  make  a  soft  place  for  the  dear  robin's 

feet.     The  bush  was  so  prickly,   I  could   not  bear  to  see  him 

stand  upon  it." 

And  to  this  day  the  crooked  holly  bush  tells  of  the  little 
child's  tenderness. 


260  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

Then  there  is  another  old  story  of  Janet,  how,  once  being 
sorely  troubled  with  toothache,  and  anxious  to  bear  it  uncom- 
plainingly "like  a  woman,"  she  was  found,  after  being  searched 
for  everywhere,  fast  asleep  in  the  "byre,"  her  little  cheek  pil- 
lowed on  the  soft  skin  of  a  few  days'  old  calf.  "Its  breath 
was  so  sweet,  and  it  felt  so  soft  and  warm,  it  seemed  to  take 
the  ache  away,"  she  said. 

And  another  old  memory  of  little  Janet  on  a  visit  at 
an  uncle's,  put  to  sleep  in  a  room  alone,  and  feeling  frightened 
by  a  sudden  gale  of  wind  that  rose  in  the  night,  howling  among 
the  trees  and  sweeping  down  the  hills.  Poor  little  Janet!  It 
seemed  to  her  she  was  far,  far  away  from  everbody,  and  the 
wind,  as  it  were,  took  mortal  form  and  voice,  and  threatened 
her,  till  she  could  bear  it  no  longer.  Up  she  got,  all  in  the 
dark,  and  wandered  away  down  the  stairs  and  passages  of  the 
rambling  old  house,  till  at  last  a  faint  glimmer  of  light  led  her 
to  a  modest  little  room  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  kitchen, 
where  old  Jamie,  the  faithful  serving-man,  who  had  seen  pass 
away  more  than  one  generation  of  the  family  he  was  devoted  to, 
was  sitting  up  reading  his  Bible  before  going  to  bed.  How 
well  Janet  remembers  it  even  now!  The  old  man's  start  of 
surprise  at  the  unexpected  apparition  of  wee  missy,  how  he  took 
her  on  his  knee  and  turned  over  the  pages  of  "the  Book,"  to 
read  to  her  words  of  gentle  comfort,  even  for  a  little  child's 
alarm;  how  Jesus  hushed  the  winds  and  waves,  and  bade  them 
be  still;  how  not  a  hair  of  the  head  of  even  tiny  Janet  could 
be  injured  without  the  Father's  knowledge;  how  she  had  indeed 
no  reason  to  fear;  till,  soothed  and  reassured,  the  child  let  the 
good  old  man  lead  her  back  to  bed  again,  where  she  slept 
soundly  till  morning. 

But  all  this  time  I  am  very  long  of  introducing  to  you,  the 
real  heroine  of  this  story — not  Janet,  but  who  then?  Janet's 
dearest  and  most  tenderly  prized  doll — "Mary  Ann  Jolly." 

She  was  one  of  several,  but  the  best  loved  of  all,  though 


MARY  ANN  JOLLY  261 

why  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  say.  She  was  certainly  not 
pretty;  indeed,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  fear  I  must  own  that  she  was 
decidedly  ugly.  And  an  ugly  doll  in  those  days  was  an  ugly 
doll,  my  dears.  For  Whether  little  girls  have  altered  much  or 
not  since  the  days  of  Janet's  childhood,  there  can  be  no  two 
opinions  about  dolls;  they  have  altered  tremendously  and  un- 
doubtedly for  the  better.  There  were  what  people  thought  very 
pretty  dolls  then,  and  Janet  possessed  two  or  three  of  these. 
There  was  "Lady  Lucy  Manners,"  an  elegant  blonde,  with 
flaxen  ringlets  and  pink  kid  hands  and  arms;  there  was  "Master 
Ronald,"  a  gallant  sailor  laddie,  with  crisp  black  curls  and 
goggle  bead  eyes;  there  were  two  or  three  others — Arabellas 
or  Clarissas,  I  cannot  tell  you  their  exact  names;  on  the  whole, 
for  that  time,  Janet  had  a  goodly  array  of  dolls.  But  still, 
dearest  of  all  was  Mary  Ann  Jolly.  I  think  her  faithfulness, 
her  thorough  reliableness,  must  have  been  her  charm;  she 
never  melted,  wept  tears  of  wax — that  is  to  say,  to  the  detri- 
ment of  her  complexion,  when  placed  too  near  the  nursery  fire. 
She  never  broke  an  artery  and  collapsed  through  loss  of  sawdust. 
These  weaknesses  were  not  at  all  in  her  way,  for  she  was  of 
wood,  wooden.  Her  features  were  oil-painted  on  her  face,  like 
the  figure-head  of  a  ship,  and  would  stand  washing.  Her  hair 
was  a  good  honest  black-silk  wig,  with  sewn-on  curls,  and  the 
whole  affair  could  be  removed  at  pleasure;  but  oh,  my  dear 
children,  she  was  ugly.  Where  she  had  come  from  originally 
I  cannot  say.  I  feel  almost  sure  it  was  from  no  authorised 
doll  manufactory.  I  rather  think  she  was  home-made  to  some 
extent,  and  I  consider  it  highly  probable  that  her  beautiful 
features  were  the  production  of  the  village  painter.  But  none 
of  these  trifling  details  are  of  consequence;  wherever  she  had 
come  from,  whatever  her  origin,  she  was  herself — good,  faithful 
Mary  Ann  Jolly. 

One  summer  time  there  came  trouble  to  the  neighbourhood 
where  little  Janet's  home  was.    A  fever  of  some  kind  broke  out 


262  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

in  several  villages,  and  its  victims  were  principally  children.  For 
the  elder  ones  of  the  family — such  of  them,  that  is  to  say,  as  were 
at  home — but  little  fear  was  felt  by  their  parents;  but  for 
Janet  and  the  brother  next  to  her,  Hughie,  only  three  years 
older  than  she,  they  were  anxious  and  uneasy.  Hughie  was 
taken  from  the  school,  a  few  miles  distant,  to  Which  every  day 
he  used  to  ride  on  his  little  rough  pony,  and  for  the  time  Janet 
and  he  were  allowed  to  run  wild.  They  spent  the  long  sunny 
days,  for  it  was  the  height  of  summer,  in  the  woods  or  on  the 
hills,  as  happy  as  two  young  fawns,  thinking,  in  their  innocence, 
"the  fever" — to  them  but  the  name  of  an  unknown  and  unrealis- 
able  possibility — rather  a  lucky  thing  than  otherwise. 

And  Hughie  was  a  trusty  guardian  for  his  delicate  little  sis- 
ter. He  was  a  brave  and  manly  little  fellow;  awkward  and  shy  to 
strangers,  but  honest  as  the  day,  and  with  plenty  of  mother-wit 
about  him.  Janet  looked  up  to  him  with  affection  and  admira- 
tion not  altogether  unmixed  with  awe.  Hughie  was  great  at 
"knowing  best,"  in  their  childish  perplexities,  and,  for  all  his 
tenderness,  somewhat  impatient  of  "want  of  sense,"  or  thought- 
lessness. 

One  day  the  two  children,  accompanied  as  usual  by  Hughie's 
dog  "Cassar,"  and  the  no  less  faithful  Mary  Ann  Jolly,  had 
wandered  farther  than  their  wont  from  home.  Janet  had  set 
her  heart  on  some  beautiful  water  forget-me-nots,  which,  in  a 
rash  moment,  Hughie  had  told  her  that  he  had  seen  growing  on 
the  banks  of  a  little  stream  that  flowed  through  a  sort  of  gorge 
between  the  hills.  It  was  quite  three  miles  from  home — a 
long  walk  for  Janet,  but  Hughie  knew  his  way  perfectly — he 
was  not  the  kind  of  boy  ever  to  lose  it;  the  day  was  lovely, 
and  the  burn  ran  nowhere  near  the  direction  they  had  been 
forbidden  to  take — 'that  of  the  infected  village.  But  Hughie. 
wise  though  he  was,  did  not  know  or  remember  that  close  to 
the  spot  for  which  he  was  aiming  ran  a  road  leading  directly 
from  this  village  to  the  ten  miles  distant  little  town  of  Linnside, 


MARY  ANN  JOLLY  263 

and  even  had  he  thought  of  it,  the  possibility  of  any  danger 
to  themselves  attending  the  fact  would  probably  never  have 
struck  him.  There  was  another  way  to  Linnside  from  their 
home,  so  Hughie's  ignorance  or  forgetfulness  was  natural. 

The  way  down  to  the  edge  of  the  burn  was  steep  and  difficult, 
for  the  shrubs  and  bushes  grew  thickly  together,  and  there 
was  no  proper  path. 

"Stay  you  here,  Janet,"  he  said,  finding  for  the  child  a  seat  on 
a  nice  flat  stone  at  the  entrance  to  the  gorge;  "I'll  be  back  before 
you  know  I  am  gone,  and  I'll  get  the  flowers  much  better 
without  you,  little  woman ;  and  Mary  Ann  will  be  company  like." 

Janet  obeyed  without  any  reluctance.  She  had  implicit  faith 
in  Hughie.  But  after  a  while  Mary  Ann  confided  to  her  that 
she  was  "wearying"  of  sitting  still,  and  Janet  thought  it  could 
do  no  harm  to  take  a  turn  up  and  down  the  sloping  field  where 
Hughie  had  left  her.  She  wandered  to  a  gate  a  few  yards  off, 
and,  finding  it  open,  wandered  a  little  farther,  till,  without 
knowing  it,  she  was  Avithin  a  stone's  throw  of  Dhe  road  I 
mentioned.  And  here  an  unexpected  sight  met  Janet's  eyes, 
and  made  her  lose  all  thought  of  Hughie  and  the  forget-me-nots, 
and  how  frightened  he  would  be  at  missing  her.  Drawn  up  in 
a  corner  by  some  trees  stood  one  of  tihose  travelling  houses  on 
wheels,  in  which  I  suppose  every  child  that  ever  was  born  has  at 
one  time  or  other  thought  that  it  would  be  delightful  to  live. 
Janet  had  never  seen  one  before,  and  she  gazed  at  it  in  astonish- 
ment, till  another  still  more  interesting  object  caught  her 
attention. 

It  was  a  child — a  little  girl  just  about  her  own  age,  a  dark- 
eyed,  dark-haired,  brown-skinned,  but  very,  very  thin  little 
girl,  lying  on  a  heap  of  old  shawls  and  blankets  on  the  grass 
by  the  side  of  the  movable  house.  She  seemed  to  be  quite  alone 
— there  was  no  one  in  the  waggon  apparently,  no  sound  to  be 
heard;  she  lay  quite  still,  one  thin  little  hand  under  her  head, 
the  other  clasping  tightly   some  two  or  three   poor   flowers — a 


264  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

daisy  or  two,  a  dandelion,  and  some  buttercups — which  she  had 
managed  to  reach  without  moving  from  her  couch.  Janet,  from 
under  her  little  green  shade,  stared  at  her,  and  she  returned 
the  stare  with  interest,  for  all  around  was  so  still  that  the 
slight  rustle  made  by  the  little  intruder  caught  her  sharp  ear 
at  once.  But  after  a  moment  her  eyes  wandered  down  from 
Janet's  fair  childish  face,  on  which  she  seemed  to  think  she 
had  bestowed  enough  attention,  and  settled  themselves  on  the 
lovely  object  nestling  in  the  little  girl's  maternal  embrace.  A 
smile  of  pleasure  broke  over  her  face. 

"What's  yon?"  she  said  suddenly. 

"What's  what?"  said  Janet. 

"Yon,"  repeated  the  child,  pointing  with  her  disengaged  hand 
to  the  faithful  Mary  Ann. 

"That,"  exclaimed  Janet.  "That's  my  doll.  That's  Mary 
Ann  Jolly.     Did  you  never  see  a  doll?" 

"No,"  replied  the  brown-skinned  waif,  "never.  She's  awfu' 
bonny." 

Janet's  maternal  vanity  was  gratified. 

"She's  guid  and  she's  bonny,"  she  said,  unconsciously  imitat- 
ing, with  ludicrous  exactness,  her  own  old  nurse's  pet  expression 
when  she  was  pleased  with  her.  She  hugged  Mary  Ann  closer 
to  her  as  she  spoke.  "You'd  like  to  have  a  dolly  too,  wouldn't 
you,  little  girl?" 

The  child  smiled. 

"I  couldna  gie  her  tae  ye,"  said  Janet,  relapsing  into  Scotch, 
with  a  feeling  that  "high  English"  would  probably  be  lost  upoa 
her  new  friend.  "But  ye  micht  tak'  her  for  a  minute  in  yer  ain 
airms,  if  ye  like?" 

"Ay  wad  I,"  said  the  child,  and  Janet  stepped  closer  to  her 
and  deposited  Mary  Ann  in  her  arms. 

"Canna   ye   stan'    or   walk    aboot?      Hae   ye   nae   legs?"    she 
inquired. 

"Legs,"  repeated  the  child,  "what  for  shud  I  na  hae  legs? 


MARY  ANN  JOLLY  265 

I  oanna  rin  aboot  i'  the  noo;  I've  nae  been  weel,  but  I'll  sune 
be  better.  Eh  my!  but  she's  awfu'  fine,"  she  went  on,  caressing 
Mary  Ann  as  she  spoke. 

But  at  this  moment  the  bark  of  a  dog  interrupted  the 
friendly  conversation.  Ceesar  appeared,  and  Janet  stauted  for- 
ward to  reclaim  her  property,  her  heart  for  the  first  time  mis- 
giving her  as  to  "what  Hughie  would  9ay."  Just  as  she  was 
taking  Mary  Ann  out  of  the  little  vagrant's  arms,  Hughie  came 
up.  He  was  hot,  breathless,  anxious,  and,  as  a  natural  conse- 
quence of  the  last,  especially,  angry. 

"Naughty  Janet,  bad  girl,"  he  exclaimed,  in  his  excitement 
growing  more  "Scotch"  than  usual.  What  for  didna  ye  bide 
whaur  I  left  ye?  I  couldna  think  what  had  become  o'  ye;  bad 
girl.    And  wha's  that  ye're  clavering  wi'?     Shame  on  ye,  Janet." 

He  darted  forward,  snatched  his  little  sister  roughly  by 
the  arm,  dropping  the  precious  forget-me-nots  in  his  flurry,  and 
dragged  Janet  away,  making  her  run  so  fast  that  she  burst  out 
sobbing  with  fear  and  consternation.  She  could  not  understand 
it;  it  was  not  like  Hughie  to  be  so  fierce  and  rough. 

"You  are  very,  very  unkind,"  she  began  as  soon  as  her 
brother  allowed  her  to  stop  to  take  breath.  "Why  should  I 
nae  speak  to  the  puir  wee  girl?  She  looked  sae  ill  lying  there 
her  lane,  and  she  was  sae  extraordinar'  pleased  wi'  Mary  Ann." 

"You  let  her  touch  Mary  Ann,  did  ye?"  said  Hughie,  stop- 
ping short.  "I  couldna  have  believed,  Janet,  you'd  be  such  a 
fule.  A  big  girl,  ten  years  old,  to  ken  na  better!  It's  'fare- 
ye-weel'  to  Mary  Ann  anyway,  and  you  have  yourself  to  thank 
for  it." 

They  were  standing  near  the  spot  where  Hughie  had  left 
his  sister  while  he  clambered  down  to  the  burn,  and  before 
Janet  had  the  least  idea  of  his  intention,  Hughie  seized  the 
unfortunate  doll,  and  pitched  her,  with  all  his  strength,  far,  far 
away  down  among  the  brushwood  of  the  glen. 

For  an   instant   Janet   stood   in   perfect   silence.      She   was 


266  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

too  thunderstruck,  too  utterly  appalled  and  stunned,  to  take  in 
the  reality  of  what  had  happened.  She  had  never  seen  Hughie 
in  a  passion  in  her  life;  never  in  all  their  childish  quarrels  had 
he  been  harsh  or  "bullying,"  as  I  fear  too  many  boys  of  his 
age  are  to  their  little  sisters.  She  gazed  at  him  in  terrified 
consternation,  slowly,  very  slowly  taking  in  the  fact — to  her 
almost  as  dreadful  as  if  he  had  committed  a  murder — that  Hughie 
had  thrown  away  Mary  Ann — her  own  dear,  dear  Mary  Ann; 
and  Hughie,  her  own  brother  had  done  it!    Had  he  lost  his  senses? 

"Hughie,"  she  gasped  out  at  last;  that  was  all. 

Hughie  looked  uneasy,  but  tried  to  hide  it. 

"Come  on,  Janet,"  he  said,  "it's  getting  late.  We  must 
put  our  best  foot  foremost,  or  nurse  will  be  angry." 

But  Janet  took  no  notice  of  what  he  said. 

"Hughie,"  she  repeated,  "are  ye  no  gaun  to  get  me  Mary 
Ann  back  again?" 

Hughie  laughed,  half  contemptuously.  "Get  her  back  again," 
he  said.  "She's  ower  weel  hidden  for  me  or  anybody  to  get  her 
back  again.  And  why  should  I  want  her  back  when  I've  just  the 
noo  thrown  her  awa'?  Na,  na,  Janet,  you'll  have  to  put  up 
wi'  the  loss  of  Mary  Ann;  and  I  only  hope  you  won't  have 
to  put  up  wi'  waur.  It's  your  own  fault;  though  maybe  I 
shouldna'  have  left  her,"  he  added  to  himself. 

"Hughie,  you've  broke  my  heart,"  said  Janet.  "What  did 
you  do  it  for?" 

"If  you'd  an  ounce  of  sense  you'd  know,"  said  Hughie; 
"and  if  you  don't  I'm  no  gaun  to  tell." 

And  in  dreary  silence  the  two  children  made  their  way  home 
— Hughie,  provoked,  angiy,  and  uneasy,  yet  self-reproachful 
and  sore-hearted;  Janet  in  an  anguish  of  bereavement  and  in- 
dignation, yet  through  it  all  not  without  little  gleams  of  faith 
in  Hughie  still,  that  mysteriously  cruel  though  his  conduct  ap- 
peared, there  must  yet  somehow  have  been  a  good  reason  for  it. 

It  was  not  for  long,  however,  that  she  understood  it.     She 


MARY  ANN  JOLLY  267 

did  not  know  that  immediately  they  got  home  honest  Hughie 
went  to  his  father  and  told  him  all  that  had  happened,  taking 
blame  to  himself  manfully  for  having  for  an  instant  left 
Janet  alone. 

"And  you  say  she  does  not  understand  at  all  why  you 
threw  the  doll  away,"  said  Janet's  father.  "Did  she  not  notice 
that  the  little  girl  had  been  ill?" 

"Oh  yes,  but  she  took  no  heed  of  it,"  Hughie  replied.  "She 
thinks  it  was  just  awfu'  unkind  of  me  to  get  in  such  a  temper. 
I  would  like  her  to  know  why  it  was,  but  I  thought  maybe  I 
had  better  not   explain   till   I   had   told   you." 

"You  were  quite  right,  Hughie,"  said  his  father;  "and  I 
think  it  is  better  to  leave  it.  Wee  Janet  is  so  impressionable 
and  fanciful,  it  would  not  do  for  her  to  begin  thinking  she 
had  caught  the  fever  from  the  child.  We  must  leave  it  in 
God's  hands,  and  trust  no  ill  will  come  of  it.  And  the  first  day 
I  can  go  to  Linnside  you  Shall  come  with  me,  and  we'll  buy  her 
a  new  doll." 

"Thank  you,  father,"  said  Hughie  gratefully.  But  he 
stopped  as  he  was  leaving  the  room,  with  his  hand  on  the  door 
handle,  to  say,  half -laughing,  half-pathetically,  "I'm  hardly 
thinking,  father,  that  any  new  doll  will  make  up  to  wee  Janet 
for  Mary  Ann." 

Janet  heard  nothing  of  this  conversation,  however,  and  the 
silence  which  was,  perhaps  mistakenly,  preserved  about  the  loss 
of  her  favourite  added  to  the  mysterious  sadness  of  her  fate.  The 
poor  little  girl  moped  and  pined,  but  said  nothing.  To  Hughie 
her  manner  was  gently  reproachful,  but  nothing  more.  But  all 
her  brightness  and  playfulness  had  deserted  her;  she  hung  about' 
listless  and  uninterested,  and  for  some  days  there  was  not  an  hour 
during  which  one  or  other  of  her  doting  relations — father,  mother, 
sisters,  and  brothers — did  not  make  up  his  or  her  mind  that  their 
darling  was  smitten  by  the  terrible  blast  of  the  fever. 

A  week,   ten   days,   nearly   a   fortnight    passed,    and   they 


268  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

began  to  breathe  more  freely.  Then  one  day  the  father,  remem- 
bering his  promise,  took  Hughie  with  him  to  the  town  to  buy 
a  new  doll  for  Janet,  instead  of  her  old  favourite.  I  cannot 
describe  to  you  the  one  they  bought,  but  I  know  it  was  the 
prettiest  that  money  could  get  at  Linnside,  and  Hughie  came 
home  in  great  spirits  with  the  treasure  in  his  arms. 

"Janet,  Janet,"  he  shouted,  as  soon  as  he  had  jumped  off 
his  pony,  "where  are  you,  Janet?  Come  and  see  what  I've  got 
for    you !" 

Janet  came  slowly  out  of  the  study,  where  she  had  been 
lying  coiled  up  on  the  floor,  near  the  low  window,  watching 
for  her  father's   return. 

"I'm  here,  Hughie,"  she  said,  trying  to  look  interested  and 
bright,  though  the  effort  was  not  very  successful. 

But  Hughie  was  too  excited  and  eager  to  notice  her  manner. 

"Look  here,  Janet,"  he  exclaimed,  unwrapping  the  paper 
which  covered  Miss  Dolly.  "Now,  isn't  she  a  beauty?  Far  be- 
fore that  daft-like  old  Mary  Ann;  eh,  Janet?" 

Janet  took  the  new  doll  in  her  hands.  "She's  bonny,"  she 
said,  hesitatingly.  "It's  very  kind  of  you,  Hughie;  but  I  wish, 
I  wish  you  hadn't.  I  don't  care  for  her.  I  dinna  mean  to 
vex  ye,  Hughie,"  she  continued,  sadly,  "but  I  canna  help  it. 
I  want,  oh  I  do  want  my  ain  Mary  Ann!" 

She  put  the  new  doll  down  on  the  hall  table,  burst  into 
tears,  and  ran  away  to  the  nursery. 

"She's  just  demented  about  that  Mary  Ann,"  said  Hughie  to 
his  father,  who  had  followed  him  into  the  hall. 

"I'm  sorry  for  your  disappointment,  my  boy,"  said  his  father, 
"but  you  must  not  take  it  to  heart.  I  don't  think  wee  Janet 
can  be  well." 

He  was  right.  What  they  had  so  dreaded  came  at  last,  just 
as  they  had  begun  to  hope  that  the  danger  was  over.  The  next 
morning  saw  little  Janet  down  with  the  fever.  Ah,  then,  what 
sad  days  of  anxiety  and  watching  followed!     How  softly  every- 


©BY     DUFFIELD     a     COMPANY 

"I've  some  one  else  here  to  kiss  you,  Wee  Janet,"  he  said. 


MARY  ANN  JOLLY  269 

body  crept  about — a  vain  precaution,  for  poor  Janet  was  uncon- 
scious of  everything  about  her.  How  careworn  and  tear-stained 
were  all  the  faces  of  the  household — parents,  brothers  and  sisters, 
and  servants!  What  sad  little  bulletins,  costing  sixpence  if  not 
a  shilling  each  in  those  days,  children,  were  sent  off  by  post 
every  day  to  the  absent  ones,  with  the  tidings  still  of  "No 
better,"  gradually  growing  into  the  still  worse,  "Very  little 
hope."  It  must  have  been  a  touching  sight  to  see  a  whole  house- 
hold so  cast  down  about  the  fate  of  one  tiny,  delicate  child. 

And  poor  Hughie  was  the  worst  of  all.  They  had  tried  to 
keep  him  separate  from  his  sister,  but  it  was  no  use.  He  had 
managed  to  creep  into  the  room  and  kiss  her  unobserved,  and 
then  he  had  it  all  his  own  way — all  the  harm  was  done.  But 
he  could  hardly  bear  to  hear  her  innocent  ravings,  they  were  so 
often  about  the  lost  Mary  Ann,  and  Hughie's  strange  cruelty  in 
throwing  her  away.  "I  canna  think  what  came  over  Hughie  to 
do  it,"  she  would  say,  over  and  over  again.  "I  want  no  new 
dollies.     I  only  want  Mary  Ann." 

Then  there  came  a  day  on  which  the  doctor  said  the  disease 
was  at  its  height — a  few  hours  would  show  on  which  side  the 
victory  was  to  be;  and  the  anxious  faces  grew  more  anxious  still, 
and  the  silent  prayers  more  frequent.  But  for  many  hours  of 
this  day  Hughie  was  absent,  and  the  others,  in  their  intense 
thought  about  Janet,  scarcely  missed  him.  He  came  home  late 
in  the  summer  evening,  with  something  in  his  arms,  hidden  under 
his  jacket.  And  somehow  bis  face  looked  more  hopeful  and 
happy  than  for  days  past. 

"How  is  she?"  he  asked  breathlessly  of  the  first  person  he 
met.     It  was  one  of  the  elder  sisters. 

"Better,"  she  replied,  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes.  "O  Hughie, 
how  can  we  thank  God  enough?  She  has  wakened  quite  herself, 
and  the  doctor  says  now  there  is  only  weakness  to  fight  against. 
She  has  been  asking  for  you,  Hughie.  You  may  go  up  and 
say  good-night.     Where  have  you  been  all  the  afternoon?" 


270  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

But  Hughie  was  already  half  way  up  the  stairs. 

He  crept  into  Janet's  room,  where  the  mother  was  on  guard. 
She  made  a  sign  to  him  to  come  to  the  bed  where  little  Janet  lay, 
pale,  and  thin  and  fragile,  but  peaceful  and  conscious. 

"Good-night,  wee  Janet,"  Hughie  whispered;  "I'm  sae  glad 
wee  Janet's  better." 

"Good-night,  Hughie,"  she  answered  softly.  "Kiss  me, 
Hughie." 

"I've  some  one  else  here  to  kiss  you,  wee  Janet,"  he  said. 

Janet  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"You  must  not  excite  her,  Hughie,"  the  mother  whispered. 
But  Hughie  knew  what  he  was  about.  He  drew  from  under 
his  jacket  a  queer,  familiar  figure.  It  was  Mary  Ann  Jolly! 
There  had  been  no  rain,  fortunately  for  her,  during  her  exposure 
to  the  weather,  and  she  was  sturdy  enough  to  have  stood  a 
few  showers,  even  had  there  been  any.  She  really  looked  in  no 
way  the  worse  for  her  adventure,  as  Hughie  laid  her  gently 
down  on  the  pillow  beside  Janet. 

"It's  no  one  to  excite  her,  mother,"  he  said.  "It's  no 
stranger;  only  Mary  Ann.  She's  been  away  paying  a  visit  to 
the  fairies  in  the  glen,  and  I  think  she  must  have  enjoyed  it. 
She's  looking  as  bonny  as  ever,  and  she  was  in  no  hurry  to  come 
home.  I  had  to  shout  for  her  all  over  the  glen  before  I  could 
make  her  hear.     Are  you  glad  she's  come,  Janet?" 

Janet's  eyes  were  glistening.  "O  Hughie,"  she  whispered, 
"kiss  me  again.     I  can  sleep  so  well  now." 

The  crisis  no  doubt  had  been  passed  before  this,  but  still  it 
is  certain  that  Janet's  recovery  was  faster  far  than  had  been 
expected.  And  for  this  she  and  Hughie,  and  some  of  the  elder 
ones,  too,  I  fancy,  gave  the  credit  to  the  return  of  her  favourite. 
Hughie  was  well  rewarded  for  his  several  hours  of  patient 
searching  in  the  glen;  and  I  am  happy  to  tell  you  that  he  did 
not  catch  the  fever. 

He  would  have  been  an  elderly,  almost  an  old  man  by  now 


MARY  ANN  JOLLY  271 

had  he  lived — good,  kind  Hughie.  But  that  was  not  God's  will 
for  him.  He  died  long  ago,  in  the  prime  of  his  youthful  man- 
hood; and  it  is  to  his  little  grand-nephews  and  nieces  that  wee 
Janet's  daughter  has  heen  telling  this  simple  story  of  a  long-ago 
little  girl,  and  a  long-ago  doll,  poor  old  Mary  Ann  Jolly! 


BASIL'S  VIOLIN 

Part  1 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  telling  me  about  it.  I  am  pleased, 
ffor  it  is  just  what  I  wanted  to  hear  of." 

"And  I  am  so  glad  for  Herr  Wildermann's  sake.  It  rarely 
happens  in  this  world  that  one  hears  of  a  want  and  a  supply  at 
the  same  time";  and  the  speaker,  laughing  as  she  said  the  last 
words,  shook  hands  once  again  with  her  hostess  and  left  her. 

Lady  Utyd  went  to  the  window, — a  low  one,  leading  on  to  the 
garden,  and  looked  out.  Then  she  opened  it  and  called  out 
clearly,  though  not  very  loudly 

"Basil,  Basi — i — il,  are  you  there,  my  boy?" 

"Yes,  mother;  I'm  coming."  And  from  among  the  bushes, 
at  a  very  short  distance,  there  emerged  a  rather  comical  little 
figure.  A  boy  of  eight  or  nine,  Avith  a  bright  rosy  face  and  short 
dark  hair.  Over  his  sailor  suit  he  had  a  brown  holland  blouse, 
which  once,  doubtless,  had  been  clean,  but  was  certainly  so  no 
longer.  It  stuck  out  rather  bunchily  behind,  owing  to  the  large 
collar  and  handkerchief  worn  beneath,  and  as  the  child  was  of  a 
sturdy  make  to  begin  with,  and  was  extra  flushed  with  his  exer- 
tions, it  was  no  wonder  that  his  mother  stopped  in  what  she  was 
going  to  say  to  laugh  heartily  at  her  little  boy. 

"You  look  like  a  gnome,  Basil,"  she  said.  "What  have  you 
been  doing  to  make  yourself  so  hot  and  dirty?" 

"Transplanting,  mother.  It's  nearly  done.  I've  taken  a 
lot  of  the  little  wood  plants  that  I  have  in  my  garden  and  put 
them  down  here  among  the  big  shrubs,  where  it's  cool  and  damp. 
It  was  too  dry  and  sunny  for  them  in  my  garden,  Andrew  says. 
They're  used  to  the  nice,  shady,  damp  sort  of  places  in  the  wood, 
you  see,  mother." 

272 


BASIL'S  VIOLIN  273 

"But  it  isn't  the  time  for  transplanting,  Basil.    It  is  too  late." 

"It  won't  matter,  Andrew  says,  mother.  I've  put  them  in 
such  a  beautiful  wet  corner.  But  I'm  awfully  hot,  and  I'm  rather 
dirty." 

"Rather,"  said  his  mother.  "And,  Basil,  your  lessons  for  to- 
morrow? It's  four  o'clock,  and  you  know  what  your  father  said 
about  having  them  done  before  you  come  down  to  dessert." 

Basil  shook  himself  impatiently. 

"Oh,  bother!"  he  said;  "whenever  I'm  a  little  happy  somebody 
begins  about  something  horrid.  I've  such  a  lot  of  lessons  to-day. 
And  it's  a  half-holiday.  I  think  it  is  the  greatest  shame  to  call  it 
a  half-holiday,  and  then  give  more  lessons  to  do  than  any  other 
day." 

At  the  bottom  of  her  heart  Lady  Iltyd  was  a  little  of  Basil's 
opinion;  but  she  felt  it  would  do  no  good,  and  might  do  a  great 
deal  of  harm,  to  say  so.  Basil  went  as  a  day-scholar  to  a  very 
good  private  school  at  Tarnworth,  the  little  country  town  two 
miles  off.  He  rode  there  on  his  pony  in  the  morning,  and  rode 
home  again  at  four  o'clock.  He  liked  his  school-fellows,  and  did 
not  dislike  his  teachers,  but  he  could  not  bear  lessons!  There  was 
this  much  excuse  for  him,  that  he  was  not  a  clever  boy  in  the  sense 
of  learning  quickly.  On  the  contrary,  he  learned  slowly,  and  had 
to  read  a  thing  over  several  times  before  he  understood  it.  Some- 
times he  would  do  so  patiently  enough;  but  sometimes — and  these 
"times,"  I  fear,  came  more  frequently  than  the  good  ones — he  was 
so  impatient,  so  easily  discouraged,  that  it  was  not  a  pleasant  task 
to  superintend  his  lessons'  learning.  Yet  he  was  not  without  a 
queer  kind  of  perseverance  of  his  own — he  could  not  bear  to  go 
to  bed  leaving  any  of  his  lessons  unfinished,  and  he  would  go  on 
working  at  them  with  a  sort  of  dull,  hopeless  resolution  that  was 
rather  piteous,  till  one  reflected  that,  after  all,  he  might  just  as 
well  look  cheerful  about  it.  But  to  look  cheerful  in  the  face  of 
difficulties  was  not  Basil's  "way."  With  the  first  difficulty  van- 
ished all  his  brightness  and  good  temper,  and  all  he  could  do  was 


274  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

to  work  on  like  a  poor  little  overdriven  slave,  with  no  pleasure  or 
satisfaction  in  his  task.  And  many  an  evening  bed-time  was  long 
past  before  his  lessons  were  ready,  for  though  Basil  well  knew 
how  long  he  took  to  learn  them,  and  how  the  later  he  put  them 
off  the  harder  they  grew,  there  was  no  getting  him  to  set  to  work 
at  once  on  coming  home.  He  would  make  one  excuse  after 
another — "it  was  not  worth  while  beginning  till  after  tea,"  or  his 
little  sister  Blanche  had  begged  him  to  play  with  her  just  for  five 
minutes,  and  they  "hadn't  noticed  how  late  it  was,"  or — or — it 
would  be  impossible  to  tell  all  the  reasons  why  Basil  never  could 
manage  to  begin  his  lessons  so  as  to  get  them  done  at  a  reasonable 
hour.  So  that  at  last  his  father  had  made  the  rule  of  which  his 
mother  reminded  him — that  he  was  not  to  come  down  to  dessert 
unless  his  lessons  were  done. 

Now,  not  coming  down  to  dessert  meant  more  to  Basil  than 
it  sounds,  and  nothing  was  a  greater  punishment  to  him.  It  was 
not  that  he  was  too  fond  of  nice  things,  for  he  was  not  at  all  a 
greedy  boy,  though  he  liked  an  orange,  or  a  juicy  pear,  or  a 
macaroon  biscuit  as  much  as  anybody,  and  he  liked,  too,  to  be 
neatly  dressed,  and  sit  beside  his  father  in  the  pretty  dining-room, 
by  the  nicely  arranged  table  with  the  flowers  and  the  fruit  and 
the  sparkling  wine  and  shining  glass.  For  though  Basil  was 
not  in  some  ways  a  clever  child,  he  had  great  taste  for  pretty  and 
beautiful  things.  But  it  was  none  of  the  things  I  have  men- 
tioned that  made  him  so  very  fond  of  "coming  down  to  dessert." 
It  was  another  thing.     It  was  his  mother's  playing  on  the  piano. 

Every  evening  when  Lady  Iltyd  left  the  dining-room,  fol- 
lowed by  Basil  and  Blanche,  she  used  to  go  straight  to  the  grand 
piano  which  stood  in  one  corner  of  the  library,  where  they  gener- 
ally sat,  and  there  she  would  play  to  the  children  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  or  so,  just  whatever  they  asked  for.  She  needed  no 
"music  paper,"  as  Blanche  called  it;  the  music  seemed  to  come 
out  of  her  fingers  of  itself.  And  this  was  Basil's  happiest  moment 
of  the  day.     Blanche  liked  it  too,  but  not  as  much  as  Basil.     She 


BASIL'S  VIOLIN  275 

would  sometimes  get  tired  of  sitting  still,  and  begin  to  fidget 
about,  so  that  now  and  then  her  mother  would  tell  her  to  run 
off  to  bed  without  waiting  for  nurse  to  come  for  her.  But  not 
so  Basil.  There  he  would  sit — or  lie,  perhaps,  generally  on  the 
white  fluffy  rug  before  the  fire — with  the  soft  dim  light  stealing 
in  through  the  coloured  glass  of  the  high  windows,  or  in  winter 
evenings  with  no  light  but  that  of  the  fire  fitfully  dancing  on  the 
rows  and  rows  and  rows  of  books  that  lined  the  walls  from 
floor  to  ceiling,  only  varied  here  and  there  by  the  portrait  of  some 
powdered-haired  great-grandfather  or  grandmother  smiling,  or 
sometimes,  perhaps,  frowning  down  on  their  funny  little  descend- 
ant in  his  sailor-suit,  with  his  short-cropped,  dark  head.  A  quaint 
little  figure  against  the  gleaming  white  fur,  dreaming — what? — 
he  could  not  have  told  you,  for  he  had  not  much  cleverness  in 
telling  what  he  thought.  But  his  music-dreams  were  very  charm- 
ing nevertheless,  and  in  after  life,  whenever  anything  beautiful 
or  exquisite  came  in  his  way,  Basil's  thoughts  always  flew  back 
to  the  old  library  and  his  mother's  playing. 

For  long  he  had  imagined  that  nothing  of  music  kind  could 
be  more  delightful.  But  a  short  time  before  this  little  story  begins 
a  new  knowledge  had  come  to  him.  At  a  concert  at  Tarnworth 
— for  once  or  twice  a  year  there  were  good  concerts  at  the  little 
town — he  had  heard  a  celebrated  violinist  play,  and  it  seemed  to 
Basil  as  if  a  new  world  had  opened  to  him. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  when  the  concert  was  over,  looking  up  at 
his  mother  with  red  cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes,  "it's  better  than 
the  piano — that  little  fiddle,  I  mean.     It's  like — like " 

"Like  what,  my  boy?" 

"I  can't  say  it,"  said  Basil,  "but  it's  like  as  if  the  music 
didn't  belong  to  here  at  all.  Like  as  if  it  came  out  of  the  air 
someway,  without  notes  or  anything.  I  think  if  I  was  an  awfully 
clever  man  I  could  say  things  out  of  a  fiddle,  far  better  than 
write  them  in  books." 

His  mother  smiled  at  him. 


276  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"But  you  mustn't  call  it  a  fiddle,  Basil.  A  violin  is  the 
right  name." 

"Violin,"  repeated  Basil  thoughtfully.  And  a  few  minutes 
later,  when  they  were  in  the  carriage  on  their  way  home, 
"Mother,"  he  said,  "do  you  think  I  might  learn  to  play  the 
violin?" 

"I  should  like  it  very  much,"  said  his  mother.  "But  I  fear 
there  is  no  teacher  at  Tarnworth.  I  will  inquire,  however. 
Only,  Basil,  there  is  one  thing.  The  violin  is  difficult,  and  you 
don't  like  difficulties." 

Basil  opened  his  eyes. 

"Difficult,"  he  said,  and  as  he  spoke  he  put  up  his  left  arm 
as  he  had  seen  the  violinist  do,  sawing  the  air  backwards  and 
forwards  with  an  imaginary  bow  in  his  right — "difficult!  I 
can't  fancy  it  would  be  difficult.  But  anyway,  I'd  awfully  like 
to  learn  it." 

This  had  been  two  or  three  months  ago.  Lady  Iltyd  had 
not  forgotten  Basil's  wish,  and,  indeed,  if  she  had  been  inclined 
to  do  so,  I  don't  think  Basil  would  have  let  her.  For  at  least 
two  or  three  times  a  week  he  asked  her  if  she  had  found  a  violin 
teacher  yet,  and  whether  it  wouldn't  be  a  good  plan  to  write  to 
London  for  a  violin.  For,  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  Basil 
had  an  idea  which  he  did  not  quite  like  to  express,  in  the  face 
of  what  his  mother  had  said  as  to  the  difficulty  of  violin  playing, 
namely,  that  teaching  at  all  would  be  unnecessary! 

"If  I  only  had  a  violin  in  my  arms,"  he  used  to  say  to 
himself  as  he  fiddled  away  with  his  invisible  bow,  "I  am  sure  I 
could  make  it  sing  out  whatever  I  wanted." 

And  I  am  afraid  that  this  idea  of  violin  playing  which  had 
taken  such  a  hold  of  him,  did  not  help  him  to  do  his  lessons 
any  the  quicker.  He  would  fall  into  a  brown  study  in  the 
middle  of  them,  imagining  himself  with  the  longed-for  treasure 
in  his  possession,  and  almost  hearing  the  lovely  sounds,  to  wake 
up   with  a  start  to  his   half-finished   Latin   exercise   or  French 


BASIL'S  VIOLIN  277 

verb  on  the  open  copy-book  before  him,  so  that  it  was  really  no 
wonder  that  the  complaint,  evening  after  evening  repeated, 
"Basil  hasn't  finished  his  lessons,"  at  last  wore  out  his  father's 
patience. 

We  have  been  a  long  time  in  returning  to  the  garden  and 
listening  to  the  conversation  between  Basil  and  his  mother. 

"Yes,  I  think  it's  a  shame,"  repeated  Basil,  apropos  of 
Wednesday  afternoon  lessons. 

"But  it  can't  be  altered,"  said  his  mother,  "and  instead  of 
wasting  time  in  grumbling,  I  think  it  would  be  much  better 
to  set  to  work.  And  Basil,  listen.  If  you  really  exert  yourself 
to  the  utmost,  you  may  still  get  your  lessons  done  in  time  this 
evening.  And  if  they  are  done  in  time,  and  you  can  come  down 
to  dessert,  I  shall  have  something  to  tell  you  in  the  library 
after  dinner." 

"Something  to  tell  me,"  repeated  Basil,  looking  rather 
puzzled.  "How  do  you  mean,  mother?  Something  nice,  do 
you  mean?" 

He  did  not  take  up  ideas  very  quickly,  and  now  and  then 
looked  puzzled  about  things  that  would  have  been  easily  under- 
stood by  most  children. 

"Nice,  of  course  it  is  nice,  you  stupid  old  fellow,"  said  his 
mother,  laughing.  "Are  you  in  a  brown  study,  Basil?  That 
bodes  ill  for  your  lessons.  Come,  rouse  yourself  and  give  all 
your  attention  to  them,  and  let  me  see  a  bright  face  at  dessert. 
Of  course  it  is  something  'nice'  I  have  to  tell  you,  or  I  wouldn't 
make  a  bribe  of  it,  would  I?  It's  very  wrong  to  bribe  you, 
isn't  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Basil.  "I  don't  think  it  can  be  if  you 
do  it.  Kiss  me,  mother.  I'll  try  to  do  my  lessons  quickly,"  and 
lifting  up  his  rosy  face  for  his  mother's  kiss,  he  ran  off.  "But 
oh,  how  I  do  hate  them!"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  ran. 

After  all,  "they"  were  not  so  very  difficult  today,  or  perhaps 
Basil  really  did  try  hard  for  once.     However  that  may  have 


278  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

been,  the  result  was  a  happy  one.  At  dessert  two  bright  little 
people  made  their  appearance  in  the  dining-room,  and  before  his 
father  had  time  to  ask  him  the  question  he  had  hitherto  so 
dreaded,  the  boy  burst  out  with  the  good  news 

"All  done,  father,  every  one,  more  than  half  an  hour  ago." 

"Yes,"  said  Blanche  complacently,  "he's  been  werry  good. 
He's  put  his  fingers  in  his  ears,  and  kept  humming  to  himself 
such  a  lot,  and  he  hasn't  played  the  vi'lin  one  time." 

"Played  the   violin!"    repeated   her   father.      "What   does  she 

mean?     You  didn't  tell  me  Basil  had  already  be "  he  went 

on,  turning  to  the  children's  mother;  but  she  hastily  inter- 
rupted him. 

"Blanche    means    playing    an    imaginary    violin,"    she    said, 

smiling.     "Ever  since  Basil  heard  Signor  L at  Tamworth, 

his  head  has  been  running  on  violins  so  that  he  stops  in  the 
middle  of  his  lessons  to  refresh  himself  with  a  little  inaudible 
music." 

As  she  spoke  she  got  up  and  moved  toward  the  door. 

"Bring  your  biscuits  and  fruit  into  the  library,  children," 
she  said.  "You  can  eat  them  there.  I'm  not  going  to  play 
to  you  this  evening.     We're  going  to  talk  instead." 

Up   jumped   Basil. 

"I  don't  want  any  fruit,"  he  said,  "I  really  don't.  Blanche, 
you  stay  with  father  and  eat  all  you  want.  I  want  to  be  a 
little  while  alone  with  mother  in  the  library.  Mayn't  I,  mother?" 
he  added  eoaxingly.     "Blanche  doesn't  mind." 

"You  are  really  very  complimentary  to  me,"  said  his  father, 
laughing.     "Why  should  Blanche  mind?" 

"I  doesn't,"  said  Blanche,  very  contentedly  watching  her 
father  peeling  a  pear  for  her.  So  Basil  and  his  mother  went 
off  together  for  their  talk. 

"About  the  'something  nice,'  mother?"  began  Basil. 

"Well,  my  boy,  I'm  quite  ready  to  tell  you.  Mrs.  March- 
cote  was  here  to-day.     You  know  who  I  mean — the  lady  who 


BASIL'S  VIOLIN  279 

lives  in  that  pretty  house  at  the  end  of  Tarnworth  High  Street. 
You  pass  it  every  morning  going  to  school." 

"I  know,"  said  Basil,  nodding  his  head.  "But  I  don't  care 
about  Mrs.  Marehcote,  mother.  Is  she  going  to  have  a  children's 
party — is  that  it?  I  don't  think  I  care  about  parties,  mother." 
And  his  face  looked  rather  disappointed. 

"Basil,  Basil,  how  impatient  you  are!  I  never  said  anything 
about  a  children's  party.  Mrs.  Marehcote  told  me  something 
quite  different  from  that.  Listen,  Basil.  A  young  German — 
Ulric  Wildermann  is  his  name — has  come  to  Tarnworth  in  hopes 
of  making  his  living  by  teaching  the  violin.  He  can  give 
pianoforte  lessons  also,  but  he  plays  the  violin  better.  He  plays 
it,  she  says,  very  beautifully.  He  has  got  no  pupils  yet,  Basil. 
But — who  do  you  think  is  going  to  be  his  first  one?" 

Basil  gazed  at  his  mother.  For  a  moment  he  felt  a  little 
puzzled. 

"Mother,"  he  said  at  last,  "do  you  mean — oh,  mother,  are 
you  going  to  let  me  have  lessons?  Shall  I  have  a  dear  little 
violin  of  my  own?    Oh,  mother,  mother!" 

And  he  jumped  up  from  the  rug  where  he  had  been  lying 
at  his  mother's  feet,  and  looked  as  if  he  were  ready  to  turn 
head  over  heels  for  joy! 

"Yes,  my  boy,"  said  his  mother;  "you  are  going  to  have 
your  first  lesson  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  Mr.  Wildermann 
is  to  choose  you  a  violin.  But  listen,  Basil,  and  think  well  of 
what  I  say.  It  is  not  easy  to  learn  to  play  the  violin.  Even  if 
a  child  has  a  great  deal  of  taste — talent  even — for  music,  it 
requires  great  patience  and  perseverance  to  leam  to  play  the 
violin  at  all  well.  No  instrument  requires  more  patience  before 
you  can  arrive  at  anything  really  good.  I  would  not  say  all 
this  to  another  child — I  would  let  Blanche,  for  instance,  find 
out  the  difficulties  for  herself,  and  meet  them  as  they  come, 
cheerfully  and  brightly  as  she  always  does.  But  you  are  so 
exaggerated  about  difficulties,  Basil,  that  I  want  to  save  yourself 


280  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

and  me  vexation  and  trouble  before  you  begin  the  violin.  You 
are  too  confident  at  first,  and  you  cannot  believe  that  there  -will 
be  difficulties,  and  then  you  go  to  the  other  extreme  and  lose 
heart.  Now,  I  warn  you  that  the  violin  is  very  difficult.  And 
it  is  not  a  thing  you  must  learn — not  like  your  lessons  at  school. 
It  will  be  a  great,  an  immense  pleasure  to  you  once  you  master 
it,  but  unless  you  resolve  to  be  patient  and  persevering  and 
hopeful  in  learning  it,  you  had  better  not  begin  it." 

Lady  Utyd  spoke  very  earnestly.  She  was  anxious  to  make 
an  impression  on  Basil,  for  she  saw  more  clearly  than  any  one 
the  faults  of  his  character,  and  longed  to  help  him  to  overcome 
them.  For  a  moment  or  two  Basil  remained  silent,  for  he 
was,  as  she  had  hoped  he  would  be,  struck  by  what  she  had  said, 
and  was  thinking  over  it.  Then  he  jumped  up,  and  throwing  his 
arms  round  his  mother's  neck,  kissed  her  very  lovingly. 

"Mother  dear,"  he  said,  "I  do  want  to  learn  it,  and  I  will 
try.  Even  if  it  is  very  difficult,  I'll  try.  You'll  see  if  I 
won't,  for  I  do  love  music,  and  I  love  you,  mother.  And  I 
would  like  to  please  you." 

Lady  Iltyd  kissed  him  in  return. 

"My  own  dear  boy,"  she  said,  "you  will  please  me  very 
much  if  you  overcome  that  bad  habit  of  losing  heart  over 
difficulties." 

"He  may  learn  more  things  than  music  in  learning  the 
violin,"  she  thought  to  herself. 

But  as  Basil  went  upstairs  to  bed,  fiddling  at  his  invisible 
violin  all  the  way,  and  whistling  the  tune  he  liked  to  fancy  he 
was  playing,  he  said  to  himself:  "I  do  mean  to  try,  but  I  can't 
believe  it  is  so  difficult  as  mother  says." 


BASIL'S  VIOLIN  281 

Part  II 

That  same  afternoon  an  elderly  woman  was  sitting  alone 
by  the  window  of  a  shabby  little  parlour  over  a  grocer's  shop 
in  the  High  Street  of  Tarnworth.  She  had  a  gentle,  careworn 
face — a  face  that  looked  as  if  its  owner  had  known  much 
sorrow,  but  had  not  lost  heart  and  patience.  She  was  knitting 
— knitting  a  stocking,  but  so  deftly  and  swiftly  that  it  was 
evident  she  did  not  need  to  pay  any  attention  to  what  her  fingers 
were  doing.  Her  eyes — soft,  old,  blue  eyes,  with  the  rather 
sad  look  those  clear  blue  eyes  often  get  in  old  age — gazed  now 
and  then  out  of  the  window — for  from  where  she  sat  a  comer  of 
the  ivy-covered  church  tower  was  to  be  seen  making  a  pleasant 
object  against  the  sky — and  now  and  then  turned  anxiously 
toward  the  door. 

"He  is  late,  my  poor  Ulric,"  she  said  to  herself.  "And 
yet  I  almost  dread  to  see  him  come  in,  with  the  same  look 
on  his  face — always  the  same  sad  disappointment!  Ah,  what  a 
mistake  it  has  been,  I  fear,  this  coming  to  England — but  yet  we 
did  it  for  the  best,  and  it  seemed  so  likely  to  succeed  here  where 
there  are  two  or  three  such  good  schools  and  no  music  teacher. 
We  did  it  for  the  best,  however,  and  there  is  no  use  regretting 
it.  The  good  God  sees  fit  to  try  us — but  still  we  must  trust 
Him.    Ah,  if  it  were  only  I;  but  my  poor  boy!" 

And  the  old  eyes  filled  with  slow-coming  tears. 

They  were  hastily  brushed  away,  however,  for  at  that 
moment  the  door  opened  and  a  young  man,  breathless  with 
excitement,  hurried  into  the  room. 

"Mother!"  he  exclaimed,  but  before  he  could  say  more  she 
interrupted  him. 

"What  is  it,  my  boy?  What  is  it,  Ulric?"  she  exclaimed. 
"No  bad  news,  surely?" 

"Bad  news,  mother  dear?  I  scarcely  see  Avhat  more  bad 
news  could  come  to  us.     As  long  as  we  have  each  other,  what  is 


282  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

there  for  us  to  lose?  But  I  did  not  mean  to  speak  gloomily 
this  morning,  for  I  have  brought  you  good  news.  Fancy, 
mother,   only   fancy — I  have  got  a  pupil   at  last." 

"My  Ulric — that  is  good  news !"  said  poor  Mrs.  Wildermann. 

"And  who  knows  what  it  may  lead  to,"  said  the  young  man. 
"I  have  always  heard  that  the  first  pupil  is  the  difficulty — once 
started,  one  gets  on  rapidly.  Especially  if  the  pupil  is  one  likely 
to  do  one  credit,  and  I  fancy  this  will  be  the  case  with  this  boy. 
Mrs.  Marchcote — it  is  through  her  kindness  I  have  been  recom- 
mended— says  he  has  unusual  taste  for  music.  He  has  been  long- 
ing to  learn  the  violin." 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  the  mother. 

"The  son  of  Sir  John  Iltyd — one  of  the  principal  families 
here.  I  could  not  have  a  better  introduction.  I  am  to  go  the 
day  after  to-morrow — three  lessons  a  week,  and  well  paid." 

He  went  on  to  explain  all  about  the  terms  to  his  mother,  who 
listened  with  a  thankful  heart,  as  she  saw  Ulric's  bright  eyes  and 
eager,  hopeful  expression. 

"He  has  not  looked  like  that  for  many  a  long  day,"  she 
thought  to  herself,  "and  the  help  has  not  come  too  soon.  Ulric 
would  have  been  even  more  unhappy  had  he  known  how  very 
little  we  have  left." 

And  she  felt  glad  that  she  had  struggled  on  without  telling 
her  son  quite  the  worst  of  things.  What  would  she  not  have 
borne  for  him — how  had  she  not  struggled  for  him  all  these  years? 
He  was  the  only  one  left  her,  the  youngest  and  last  of  her  chil- 
dren, for  the  other  three  had  died  Avhile  still  almost  infants,  and 
Ulric  had  come  to  them  when  she  and  her  husband  were  no  longer 
young,  and  had  lost  hopes  of  ever  having  a  child  to  cheer  their 
old  age.  So  never  was  a  son  more  cherished.  And  he  deserved  it. 
He  'had  been  the  best  of  sons,  and  had  tried  in  his  boyish  way  to 
replace  his  father,  though  he  was  only  twelve  years  old  when  that 
father  died.  Since  then  life  had  been  hard  on  them  both,  doubly 
hard,  for  each  suffered  for  the  other  even  more  than  personally, 


BASIL'S  VIOLIN  283 

and  yet  in  another  sense  not  so  hard  as  if  either  had  been  alone. 
They  had  had  misfortune  after  misfortune — the  little  patrimony 
which  had  enabled  Mrs.  Wildermann  to  yield  to  Ulric's  darling 
wish  of  being  a  musician  by  profession,  had  been  lost  by  a  bad 
investment  just  as  his  musical  education  was  completed,  and  it 
seemed  too  late  in  the  day  for  him  to  try  anything  else.  And  so 
for  a  year  or  two  they  had  struggled  on,  faring  not  so  badly  in  the 
summer  when  living  is  cheaper,  and  Ulric  often  got  engagements 
for  the  season  in  the  band  at  some  watering-place,  but  suffering 
sadly  in  the  long,  cold  German  winters — suffering  as  those  do 
who  will  not  complain,  who  keep  up  a  respectable  appearance  to 
the  last.  And  then  came  the  idea  of  emigrating  to  England,  sug- 
gested to  them  by  a  friend  who  had  happened  to  hear  of  what 
seemed  like  an  opening  at  Tarnworth,  where  they  had  now  been 
for  nearly  two  months  without  finding  any  pupils  for  Ulric,  or 
employment  of  any  kind  in  his  profession  for  the  young  musician. 

So  it  is  easy  to  understand  the  delight  with  which  he  ac- 
cepted Lady  Iltyd's  proposal,  made  to  him  by  Mrs.  Marchcote. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  which  of  the  two,  master  or  pupil, 
looked  forward  the  more  eagerly  to  the  first  music-lesson.  Basil 
dreamed  of  it  night  and  day.  Ulric  Wildermann  on  his  side  built 
castles  in  the  air  about  the  number  of  pupils  he  was  to  have,  and 
the  fame  he  was  to  gain  through  his  success  with  Lady  Iltyd's 
boy.  Poor  fellow,  it  was  not  from  vanity  that  his  mind  dwelt  on 
and  so  little  doubted  this  same  wonderful  success! 

And  in  due  course  came  the  day  after  to-morrow,  neither 
hastened  nor  retarded  by  the  eagerness  with  which  it  was  looked 
forward  to. 

"What  a  beautiful  home!  The  child  cannot  but  be  refined 
and  tender  in  nature  who  has  been  brought  up  in  such  a  home," 
thought  Ulric  Wildermann,  ready  at  all  times  to  think  the  best 
and  more  than  usually  inclined  to-day  to  see  things  through  rose- 
coloured  spectacles. 

He  was  walking  up  the  long  avenue  of  elms,  leading  to  the 


284  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

Hall.  The  weather  was  lovely,  already  hot,  however,  and  he 
would  have  liked  to  take  off  his  hat  and  let  the  breeze — what  there 
was  of  it,  that  is  to  say — play  on  his  forehead.  But  he  had  not 
a  free  hand,  for  he  was  loaded  with  no  less  than  three  violins,  his 
own  and  two  others,  what  are  called  half  and  three-quarters  sized, 
as,  till  he  saw  his  little  pupil,  he  could  not  tell  which  would  suit 
him.  He  did  look  rather  a  comical  object,  I  dare  say,  to  the  tall 
footman  at  the  door,  but  not  so  to  the  eager  child  who  had  spent 
the  last  hour  at  least  in  peeping  out  to  see  if  his  master  was  not 
yet  coming. 

"Mother,"  he  exclaimed,  rushing  back  into  the  room,  "he's 
come.     And  he's  brought  loads  of  violins." 

"Loads,"  repeated  Lady  Iltyd,  smiling  down  at  her  boy, 
whose  rosy  cheeks  and  bright  eyes  were  still  rosier  and  brighter 
than  usual;  "well,  among  them  it  is  to  be  hoped  there  will  be  one 
to  suit  you." 

Then  she  turned  to  Ulric,  who  was  standing  in  the  doorway, 
half  dazzled  by  the  brightness  of  the  pretty  room  into  which  he 
was  ushered  after  the  darker  hall,  and  still  more  confused  by  his 
intense  anxiety  to  please  the  graceful  lady  who  was  greeting  him 
so  kindly,  and  to  win  the  liking  of  the  child  he  was  to  teach.  But 
Basil's  mother's  pleasant  manner  soon  set  him  at  his  ease,  and  in 
a  minute  or  two  he  was  opening  the  violin  cases  and  discussing 
which  would  be  the  right  size  for  the  boy.  Basil  gazed  and  lis- 
tened in  silence.  At  first  glance  Ulric  had  felt  a  little  disap- 
pointed. His  new  pupil  was  not  certainly  a  poetical  looking 
child!  His  short  sturdy  figure  and  round  rosy  face  spoke  of 
the  perfection  of  hearty  boyish  life,  but  nothing  more.  But 
his  breathless  eagerness,  the  intense  interest  in  his  eyes — most  of 
all  the  look  in  his  face  as  he  listened  to  a  little  caprice  which  Ulric 
played  on  his  own  violin  as  a  sort  of  introduction  to  the  lesson, 
soon  made  the  musician  change  his  opinion. 

"He  has  it — he  has  the  musician's  soul.  One  can  see  it!"  he 
half  said,  half  whispered  to  Lady  Iltyd,  though  he  had  the  good 


BASIL'S  VIOLIN  285 

sense  to  understand  what  might  have  seemed  a  little  cold  in  her 
answer. 

"I  think  Basil  truly  loves  music,"  she  said,  "but  you  will  join 
with  me,  I  am  sure  Mr.  Wildermann,  in  telling  him  that  to  be 
a  musician  at  all,  to  play  well  above  all,  takes  much  patience  and 
perseverance.  Nothing  in  this  world  can  be  done  without  trouble, 
can  it?" 

"Ah,  no,"  said  Ulric  Wildermann,  "that  is  true." 

But  Basil,  whose  fingers  were  fidgeting  to  touch  at  last  the 
violin  and  dainty  bow,  said  nothing. 

"I  will  leave  you,"  said  his  mother.  "I  think  you  will  find 
it  better  to  be  alone  with  Basil,  Mr.  Wildermann." 

And  she  left  the  room. 

She  listened  with  some  anxiety  to  the  sounds  which  now  and 
then  made  their  way  to  the  room  where  she  sat  writing.  Sweet, 
clear  sounds  occasionally  from  the  master's  violin,  but  mingled, 
it  must  be  confessed,  with  others  the  reverse  of  musical.  Squeak- 
ings  and  gruntings,  and  a  dreadful  sort  of  scraping  whine,  not 
to  be  described  in  words. 

"My  poor  Basil,"  thought  his  mother,  though  it  was  a  little 
difficult  not  to  smile  at  a  most  unearthly  shriek  that  just  then 
reached  her  ears.     "I  hope  he  is  not  losing  his  temper  already." 

But  she  waited  quietly  till  the  sounds  ceased.  Then  came 
the  soft  sweet  notes  of  a  melody  which  she  knew  well,  played  by 
Mr.  Wildermann  alone;  and  a  few  minutes  after  she  saw  among 
the  trees  the  tall  thin  figure  of  the  young  German,  laden  with 
but  two  violins  this  time  as  he  made  his  way  down  the  avenue. 

She  waited  a  minute  or  two  to  see  if  Basil  would  come  to 
her.  Then,  as  he  did  not,  she  returned  to  the  morning  room 
where  he  had  had  his  lesson.  He  was  still  there,  standing  by 
the  window,  but  she  was  pleased  to  hear  as  she  went  in  that  he 
was  humming  to  himself  the  air  that  Ulric  had  played  last. 

"Well,  Basil,"  she  said,  "and  how  did  you  get  on?" 

The  boy  turned  round — there  was  a  mixture  of  expressions 


286  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLES  WORTH 

on  his  face.  A  rather  dewy  look  about  his  eyes  made  his  mother 
wonder  for  a  moment  if  he  had  been  crying.  But  when  he  spoke 
it  was  so  cheerfully  that  she  thought  she  must  have  been 
mistaken. 

"He  plays  so  beautifully,  mother,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  replied.  "I  knew  he  did.  I  heard  him  one  day 
at  Mrs.  Marchcote's,  and  I  listened  this  morning." 

"You  listened,  mother?"  he  said.  "Did  you  hear  how  aw- 
fully it  squeaked  with  me?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Lady  Iltyd,  in  a  matter-of-fact  way;  "it 
is  always  so  at  first." 

Basil  seemed  relieved. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "he  said  so  too.  But  I  don't  mind.  He 
says  I  shall  very  soon  be  able  to  make  it  sound  prettily — to  get 
nice  sounds,  you  know,  even  before  I  can  play  tunes,  if— — "  and 
Basil  hesitated. 

"If  what?" 

"If  I  practise  a  lot.  But  I  think  I  shall.  It's  rather  fun 
after  all,  and  I  do  so  like  to  have  that  ducky  little  yiolin  in  my 
arms.  It  does  feel  so  jolly,"  and  he  turned  with  sparkling  eyes 
again  to  the  dainty  little  case  containing  his  new  treasure. 

His  mother  was  pleased.  The  first  brunt  of  disappoint- 
ment which  she  was  sure  Basil  had  felt,  whether  he  owned  to 
it  or  not,  had  passed  off  better  than  she  had  expected. 

And  for  some  days  his  energy  continued.  At  all  hours, 
when  the  boy  was  at  home,  unearthly  squeaks  and  shrieks  were 
to  be  heard  in  various  parts  of  the  house,  for  it  was  not  at  all 
Basil's  way  to  confine  his  practisings  to  his  own  quarters.  Any- 
where that  came  handy — on  the  staircase,  in  the  pantry,  when 
he  took  it  into  his  head  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  footmen,  the  boy 
and  his  violin  were  to  be  seen  at  all  sorts  of  odd  hours,  and 
alas,  still  more  surely  to  be  heard!  For  a  while  his  mother 
thought  it  best  not  to  interfere;  she  did  not  wish  to  check  his 
ardour,  and  the  second  and  third  lessons  went  off,  as  far  as  she 


BASIL'S  VIOLIN  287 

could  judge,  very  well.  But  gradually  the  violin  grew  less 
talkative — a  day,  then  a  couple  of  days,  then  even  longer, 
passed  without  its  voice  being  heard,  and  one  day,  towards  the 
close  of  the  fifth  or  sixth  lesson,  Lady  Iltyd,  going  into  the 
room,  saw  a  look  she  knew  too  well  on  her  little  son's  face.  He 
flung  down  the  violin  and  turned  to  Ulric  Wildermann 

"I  can't  play  any  more — nasty  thing — I  believe  it's  got  a 
bad  fairy  inside  it,"  he  said,  half  in  fun,  half  in  petulance. 

"Why,  Basil "  began  his  mother,  but  her  glance  happen- 
ing at  the  moment  to  fall  on  the  young  German,  she  stopped 
short,  startled  at  the  look  of  intense  distress  that  overspread  his 
features.  "He  thinks  I  shall  blame  him,  poor  fellow,"  she 
thought,  and,  with  her  quick  kindliness,  she  tried,  indirectly,  to 
reassure  him. 

"Don't  look  so  grave  about  this  silly  little  boy,  Mr.  Wil- 
dermann," she  said  brightly.  "Suppose  you  drive  away  the  bad 
fairy  by  playing  to  us,  and  let  lazy  Basil  rest  a  little." 

Basil's  face,  which  had  clouded  over  at  the  beginning  of 
this  speech,  brightened  up  again.  He  flung  himself  down  on 
the  rug  with  the  air  of  one  intending  to  enjoy  himself.  And  for 
the  next  ten  minutes  or  so  not  a  sound  was  heard  but  the  ex- 
quisite tones  of  the  master's  violin,  thrilling  with  intensity,  then 
warbling  like  a  bird  in  the  joyous  springtime,  bringing  the 
tears  to  the  boy's  eyes  with  its  tender  pathos,  and  then  flushing 
his  cheeks  with  excitement,  till  at  last  they  died  away  in  the 
distance  as  it  were,  as  if  returning  to  the  enchanted  land  from 
whence  they  came. 

Basil  gave  a  deep  sigh. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "to  play  like  that " 

Ulric  Wildermann's  face  lighted  up. 

"He  has  it — he  loves  it  so  much,  madame,"  he  said  half 
apologetically  to  Lady  Iltyd. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  but  her  tone  was  rather  grave.  "But  it 
is  not  enough  to  love  it.     He  must  learn  not  to  be  so  easily 


288  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

discouraged.  You  know,  my  boy,  what  I  said  to  you  at  the  be- 
ginning," she  went  on,  turning  to  Basil,  "it  is  not  a  necessity 
to  learn  the  violin.  I  would  rather  you  gave  it  up  than  make  it 
a  worry  and  vexation  to  yourself  and  others." 

Basil  stopped  her  with  a  kiss. 

"It's  only  when  the  bad  fairy  comes,"  he  said.  "Don't  be 
vexed  with  me,  mother.     I'm  in  a  beautiful  good  temper  now." 

A  day  or  two  after  this,  Basil's  mother  left  home  for  a 
fortnight.  She  said  a  few  words  to  him  before  she  went,  about 
his  violin  lessons,  but  not  much,  for  she  had  heard  him  practis- 
ing again  with  more  attention,  and  she  had  begun  to  hope  his 
impatience  and  discouragement  had  been  merely  a  passing  fit. 
So  she  only  repeated  to  him  what  she  had  said  already.  Basil 
listened  in  silence,  with  an  expression  on  his  face  she  did  not 
quite  understand.  But  she  thought  it  better  to  say  no  more, 
especially  when  the  boy  flung  his  arms  around  her  neck,  and  re- 
peated more  than  once — 

"I  do  want  to  please  you,  little  mother;  I  do,  I  do,"  he 
cried;  and  her  last  sight  of  him,  as  the  carriage  drove  away,  was 
standing  with  his  violin  in  his  arms  at  the  hall-door,  pretending 
to  fiddle  away  at  a  great  rate. 

"He  is  only  a  baby  after  all,"  said  Lady  Iltyd  to  herself. 
"I  must  not  be  too  anxious  about  his  faults.  This  fortnight  will 
test  his  perseverance  about  the  violin.  If  he  is  not  going  to  be 
steady  about  it,  he  must  give  it  up." 

Alas!  the  fortnight  tested  Basil  and  found  him  wanting. 
There  were  some  excuses  perhaps.  It  Avas  very  hot,  and  the 
half-yearly  examinations  were  coming  on.  In  his  parents' 
absence  it  had  been  arranged  that  he  was  to  stay  later  at  school 
so  as  to  get  his  lessons  done  before  coming  home — a  very  neces- 
sary precaution;  for  without  his  mother  at  hand  to  keep  him  up 
to  his  work  it  is  to  be  doubted  if  the  lessons  would  often  have 
been  finished  before  midnight!  Basil  would  not  have  gone  to 
bed  and  left  them  undone — that  was  not  his  way;  but  he  would 


BASIL'S  VIOLIN  289 

have  wasted  three  hours  over  what  with  energy  and  cheerfulness 
might  have  been  well  done  in  one.  At  school,  under  the  eye 
of  a  master,  this  was  less  likely  to  occur — the  boy  was  to  some 
extent  forced  to  give  his  attention  and  keep  up  his  spirit,  though 
the  master,  whose  business  it  was  to  superintend  the  lessons  pre- 
paring, found  his  labours  increased  in  no  trifling  way  during  the 
fortnight  of  Basil's  staying  later. 

And  when  he  got  home  after  all  this  hard  work,  the  boy 
felt  inclined  for  a  romp  with  Blanche,  or  a  stroll  in  the  garden, 
far  more  than  for  practising  the  violin!  Half-holidays,  too,  in 
hot  weather,  presented  many  temptations.  The  hay  was  down 
in  the  park  on  the  side  nearest  the  house,  the  strawberries  were 
at  their  prime;  there  seemed  always  something  else  to  do  than 
struggling  with  the  capricious  little  instrument  whose  "con- 
trariness," as  he  called  it,  really  made  Basil  sometimes  fancy 
it  was  bewitched. 

"You've  got  it  inside  you;  why  won't  you  let  it  come  out 
for  me  as  well  as  for  him?"  he  would  say,  addressing  his  violin, 
half  in  fun,  half  in  petulance,  after  some  vain  but  not  very  sus- 
tained effort  to  draw  out  of  it  tones  in  any  way  approaching 
those  which  in  Ulric  Wildermann's  hands  seemed  to  come  of 
themselves.  "No,  I've  no  patience  with  you.  It's  too  bad,"  and 
down  he  would  fling  violin  and  bow,  declaring  to  himself  he 
would  never  touch  tihem  again.  But  when  the  day  for  the 
music  lesson  came  round,  and  Ulric  Wildermann  drew  out  some 
few  lovely  notes  before  Basil  was  ready  to  begin,  all  the  boy's 
impatience  disappeared,  and  he  listened  as  if  entranced  till  his 
master  recalled  his  attention.  And  thus,  seeing  the  child's  un- 
doubted love  for  music,  Ulric  could  not  yet  feel  altogether  dis- 
couraged, though  again  there  were  times  when  he  doubted  if  his 
efforts  would  ever  succeed  in  making  a  musician  of  the  boy. 

"But  as  long  as  he  likes  it  so  much,"  he  would  say  to  him- 
self, "and  provided  he  does  not  wish  to  give  it  up,  it  would  be 


290  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

wrong  of  me  to  suggest  it.  In  any  case  it  is  for  his  mother  to 
judge." 

Before  the  fortnight  was  over,  however,  Ulrie's  patience  was 
sorely  tried.  There  came  a  day  on  which,  Avith  a  sudden  outburst 
of  temper,  Basil  refused  to  try  any  more,  and  only  by  dint  of 
promising  to  play  to  him  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  the  lesson 
was  over,  could  his  master  get  him  to  make  any  effort.  Nor  was 
it  worth  much  when  made. 

And  poor  Ulric  walked  home  that  day  to  the  little  lodging 
over  the  grocer's  shop  with  a  heavy  heart. 


Part  III. 

In  the  first  pleasant  excitement  of  her  return  home  and 
finding  the  children  well,  and  to  all  appearance  happy,  Lady 
Iltyd  did  not  think  of  what  had,  nevertheless,  been  often  in  "her 
mind  during  her  absence — namely,  Basil's   violin! 

But  the  day  after,  when  he  came  back  from  school  and 
was  beginning  to  tell  her  all  he  had  been  busied  about  while  she 
was  away,  the  question  soon  came  to  her  lips,  "And  what  about 
your  violin,  my  boy?" 

Basil  hesitated — then  his  rosy  face  grew  rosier  than  before, 
and  he  stood  first  upon  one  leg  and  then  upon  the  other,  a  habit 
of  his  when  not  quite  easy  in  his  mind. 

"Well?"  said  Lady  Iltyd. 

Then  out  it  came. 

"Mother,"  he  began,  "I  didn't  like  to  tell  you  yesterday 
just  when  you  first  came  back,  but  I  was  going  to  tell  you.  I 
know  you'll  be  vexed,  but  I  must  tell  you  the  truth.  I  haven't 
got  on  a  bit — I  tried  to  practise  at  first,  but  I  can't  get  to  play, 
and  I  hate  it — I  mean  I  hate  not  being  able  to  play — and 
please,  mother,  I  want  to  leave  it  off." 

A  rather  sad  look  came  over  Lady  Iltyd's  face,  but  she 
only  said  quietly — 


BASIL'S  VIOLIN  291 

"Very  well,  Basil.  You  have  quite  made  up  your  mind,  I 
suppose?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "You  know  you  always  said,  mother, 
I  needn't  go  on  with  it  if  I  didn't — if  it  was  too  difficult,"  for 
he  could  not  truthfully  say  "if  I  didn't  care  for  it." 

"Yes.  I  told  you  it  was  no  necessity.  Very  well,  then,  I 
will  tell  Mr.  Wildermann  to-morrow." 

"But,  mother,"  Basil  hesitated,  "I  didn't  want  you  to  he 
vexed  about  it." 

"I  am  not  vexed,"  his  mother  replied.  "My  disappoint- 
ment is  another  matter.  But  I  will  keep  to  what  I  said.  It  is 
better  for  you  to  give  it  up  than  to  make  a  trouble  of  it  to  your- 
self and  others.     Now  run  away,  for  I  am  busy." 

Basil  went  out  of  the  room  slowly,  and  not  feeling  altogether 
happy  in  his  mind.  "It  isn't  fair  of  mother,"  he  said  to  himself; 
"she  told  me  I  needn't  go  on  with  it  if  I  didn't  like,  and  she 
never  said  she'd  be  vexed  if  I  gave  it  up,  and  she  is  vexed." 
But  he  would  not  remember  how  much  and  often  his  mother  had 
warned  him  before  he  began,  how  she  had  told  him  of  the 
patience  and  perseverance  required,  and  how  he  had  refused  to 
believe  her!  And,  boy-like,  he  soon  forgot  all  about  it  in  a  game 
with  Blanche  and  the  dogs  in  the  garden,  or  remembered  it  only 
with  a  feeling  of  relief  that  he  need  not  cut  short  his  play  to 
go  in  to  practise  his  unlucky  violin.  But  a  remark  of  his  little 
sister's  rather  destroyed  his  equanimity. 

"I'm  going  in  now,  Basil,"  she  said  with  the  little  "proper"  air 
she  sometimes  put  on;  "I've  not  finished  my  scales  yet,  and  I 
won't  have  time  after  tea.  And  you  should  go  in  for  your  violin, 
Basil.     Come  along." 

"No,"  said  Basil,  rolling  himself  again  lazily  on  the  smooth 
lawn;  "I'm  not  going  to  bother  with  it  any  more.  I've  given 
it  up." 

Blanche's  eyes  opened  wide. 

"Oh,  Basil!"  she  exclaimed.    "How  sorry  mother  will  be!" 


292  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"Rubbish,"  said  Basil,  roughly.  "Mother  always  said  I 
might  leave  it  off  if  I  liked.  I  don't  want  you  to  preach  to 
me,  Blanche."  Upon  which  Blanche  walked  away,  her  little 
person  erect  with  offended  dignity. 

Basil  did  not  feel  happy,  but  he  called  the  dogs  to  him  and 
went  off  whistling. 

The  next  day  was  a  half-holiday.  Basil  came  home  at  mid-day, 
and  the  violin  lesson  was  in  the  afternoon. 

"Am  I  to  have  a  lesson  to-day,  mother?"  said  the  boy  at 
luncheon. 

"Mr.  Wildermann  is  coming"  replied  his  mother,  "it  would 
be  very  rude  to  let  him  come  for  nothing.  I  will  see  him  first, 
and  then  you  can  go  to  him  for  the  hour.  If  he  likes  to  play 
to  you  instead  of  your  having  a  lesson,  I  do  not  care.  It  does 
not  signify  now." 

The  idea  would  have  been  very  much  to  Basil's  taste,  but  the 
tone  in  which  his  mother  said  that  "now,"  made  him  again  feel 
vexed.  He  tried  to  fancy  he  had  cause  for  being  so,  for  he  would 
not  own  to  the  real  truth — that  he  was  vexed  with  himself,  and 
that  "himself"  deserved  it. 

"It  isn't  fair,"  he  repeated  half  sullenly. 

Two  hours  later  he  was  summoned  to  the  library.  Ulric 
Wildermann  had  come  fully  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before — he  had 
heard  his  ring,  and  he  knew  his  mother  was  in  the  drawing-room 
waiting  for  him.  When  he  entered  the  library  he  thought  at  first 
there  was  no  one  there — the  violin  cases  lay  open  on  the  table,  the 
music-stand  was  placed  ready  as  usual;  but  that  was  all.  No 
pleasant  voice  met  him  with  a  friendly  greeting  in  broken  English 
and  words  of  kindly  encouragement. 

"Can  Mr.  Wildermann  have  gone  already?"  thought  the  boy. 
"He  might  have  waited  to  say  good-bye.  What  did  Sims  call 
me  for  if  he  had  gone?" 

And  he  was  turning  to  leave  the  room  with  a  mixture  of 
feelings — irritation  and  some  disappointment,  mingled  neverthe- 


BASIL'S  VIOLIN  293 

less,  with  a  certain  sense  of  relief,  for  he  had  dreaded  this  last 
lesson — when  a  slight,  a  very  slight  sound  seeming  to  come  from 
somewhere  near  the  windows,  caught  his  ear.  He  had  come  into 
the  room  more  softly  than  his  wont,  and  his  footfall  had  made 
no  sound  on  the  thick  carpet.  The  person  who  was  hidden  by 
the  curtains  had  not  heard  him,  had  no  idea  any  one  was  in  the 
room,  for  through  a  sort  of  half-choked  sob  the  child  heard  two 
or  three  confused  words  which,  though  uttered  in  German,  were 
easy  enough  to  understand 

"My  mother,  ah,  my  poor  mother!  How  can  I  tell  her?  Oh, 
my  mother!" 

And  startled  and  shocked,  Basil  stopped  short  in  the  question 
that  was  on  his  lips.  "Who's  there?  Is  it  you,  Blanche?"  he  had 
been  on  the  point  of  saying,  when  the  words  caught  his  ears. 

"It  must  be  Mr.  Wildermann — can  he  be  crying?"  said  Basil 
to  himself,  his  cheeks  growing  red  as  the  idea  struck  him.  "What 
should  I  do?" 

He  had  no  time  to  consider  the  question,  for  as  he  stood  in 
perplexity  his  little  dog  Yelpie,  who  had  followed  him  into  the 
room,  suddenly  becoming  aware  of  the  state  of  things,  dashed 
forward  with  a  short  sharp  bark. 

"Yelpie — Yelpie,"  cried  Basil;  "be  quiet,  Yelpie.  It's  only 
Mr.  Wildermann.  Don't  you  know  him,  Yelpie?  What  a  stupid 
you  are!" 

He  went  on  talking  fast  to  give  the  young  German  time  to 
recover  himself,  for,  on  hearing  Basil's  voice,  Ulric  had  come  for- 
ward from  the  shelter  of  the  curtain.  He  was  not  red,  but  pale, 
— very  pale,  with  a  look  of  such  intense  misery  in  his  eyes,  that 
Basil's  momentary  feeling  of  contempt  entirely  faded  into  one  of 
real  anxiety  and  sympathy. 

"Are  you  ill,  Mr.  Wildermann?  You  look  so  strange.  Is 
your  mother  ill?  Is  anything  dreadful  the  matter?"  he  asked 
hurriedly,  pressing  forward,  nearer  to  the  young  man. 

Ulric  tried  to  smile,  but  it  was  a  poor  attempt,  and  he  felt 


294  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

that  it  was  so.  Suddenly  a  sort  of  weak,  faint  feeling  came  over 
him — he  had  walked  over  to  the  Park  in  the  full  heat  of  the  day, 
and  the  meals  that  were  eaten  over  the  grocer's  shop  were  very 
frugal! — he  had  not  been  prepared  for  the  news  that  had  met 
him.  "Could  I — might  I  have  a  glass  of  water,  Master  Basil?" 
he  said,  drawing  to  him  a  chair  and  dropping  into  it. 

"I'll  ring  for — no,  stay,  I'll  fetch  it  myself,"  said  Basil,  with 
quick  understanding.  "I  shouldn't  like  the  servants  to  know  he 
had  been  crying — poor  man,"  he  thought  to  himself  as  he  left  the 
roozn.  And  in  two  minutes  he  was  back  with  a  glass  of  wine 
and  water. 

"I  made  Sims  put  some  sherry  in  it,"  he  said  half  apologeti- 
cally. "You've  knocked  yourself  up  somehow,  Mr.  Wildermann, 
haven't  you?" 

And  Ulric  drank  obediently,  and  managed  this  time  to  smile 
more  successfully.  "How  kind  and  thoughtful  the  boy  was — 
how  could  he  be  the  cause  of  such  sorrow,  if  indeed  he  understood 
it!"  thought  the  young  man  to  himself. 

"I — yes — perhaps  it  was  the  hot  sun,"  he  said  confusedly,  as 
he  put  down  the  glass.  "Thank  you,  very  much.  I  am  all  right 
now.  Had  we  not  better  begin?  Not  that  I  am  hurried,"  he 
went  on.  "I  can  stay  a  full  hour  from  now.  I  have  no  engage- 
ments— nothing  to  hurry  me  home,"  he  added  sadly,  for  in  his 
heart  he  was  thinking  how  he  dreaded  the  return  home,  and  what 
he  would  have  to  tell  his  poor  old  mother. 

"But  what's  the  matter?"  persisted  Basil,  who,  now  that  the 
ice  was  broken,  felt  inclined  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  things. 
"What  are  you  so  troubled  about — what  were  you ?"  He  hesi- 
tated and  stopped  short,  and  again  his  rosy  cheeks  grew  redder 
than  usual. 

Ulric  Wildermann  looked  up.  He  was  still  very  pale,  but 
he  did  not  seem  self-conscious  or  ashamed. 

"You  saw  my  distress?"  he  said  quietly.  "Ah,  well,  I  could 
not  help  it — the  thought  of  my  poor  mother "     He  turned 


BASIL'S  VIOLIN  295 

away  and  bit  his  lips.  "I  thought  you  knew  the  cause  of  it,"  he 
went  on;  "your  lady  mother,  did  you  not  know — did  she  not  tell 
you  that  she  meant  to-day  to  give  me  notice  that  the  lessons  are 
to  cease — that  this  is  to  be  the  last?" 

Basil  opened  his  mouth  as  if  he  meant  to  say  something,  and 
stood  there,  forgetting  to  shut  it  again,  and  staring  up  in  Ulric's 
face,  though  no  words  came.  Ulric,  after  waiting  a  moment  or 
two,  turned  away  and  began  arranging  the  violins.  Then  at  last 
the  boy  ejaculated 

"Mr.  Wildermann,  you — you  don't  mean  to  say "  and 

stopped  short  again. 

"To  say  what?"  asked  the  young  German,  but  without  much 
tone  of  interest  in  his  voice.  He  had  quite  mastered  himself  by 
now — a  sort  of  dull,  hopeless  resignation  was  coming  over  him — 
it  did  not  seem  to  matter  what  Basil  said  about  it;  it  was  all 
settled,  and  the  momentary  gleam  of  good-fortune  which  had  so 
raised  his  hopes  had  faded  into  the  dark  again.  "We  must  go 
back  to  Germany,"  he  was  saying  to  himself.  "Somehow  or 
other  I  must  scrape  together  money  enough  to  take  my  mother 
back  to  her  own  country.  There  at  least  she  need  not  starve.  I 
can  earn  our  daily  bread,  even  if  I  have  to  give  up  music 
for  ever." 

But  again  Basil's  voice  interrupted  his  thoughts. 

"Mr.  Wildermann,"  said  the  boy,  speaking  now  with  eager- 
ness, and  throwing  aside  his  hesitation,  "is  it  possible  that  it  is 
about  my  lessons  that  you're  unhappy.  Does  it  matter  to  you  if 
I  give  them  up?    I  never  thought  of  it." 

"Master  Basil,"  said  the  young  man  sadly,  "it  does  not  sig- 
nify now.  It  is  all  settled.  But  I  do  not  blame  you.  It  is  not 
your  fault — at  least,  it  is  not  exactly  your  fault.  You  are  so 
young,  and  the  violin  is  very  difficult.  I  am  sorry  to  lose  you 
as  a  pupil,  for  I  think  you  could  have  learnt  well,  if  you  had  had 
more  hopefulness  and  perseverance." 

And  again  he  turned  away  as  if  there  were  no  more  to  be  said. 


296  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

But  Basil  was  not  to  be  so  easily  satisfied. 

"Mr.  Wildermann,"  he  exclaimed,  going  nearer  to  his 
master  and  pulling  him  gently  by  the  sleeve,  "that  can't  be  all. 
I  dare  say  you're  vexed  at  my  giving  it  up  when  you've  tried 
so  hard  to  teach  me,  but  that  wouldn't  make  you  so  dreadfully 
sorry.  Mr.  Wildermann,  do  tell  me  all  about  it?  Is  it  because 
— because  of  the  money?"  he  whispered  at  last.  "Are  you  so 
— does  it  matter  so  much?" 

Ulric  turned  his  pale  face  to  the  boy.  Its  expression  was 
still  sad — very  sad,  but  quiet  and  resigned. 

"Yes,  my  child,"  he  said  composedly.  "Why  should  I  hide 
it?  There  is  no  shame  in  it — yes,  it  is  because  of  the  money. 
We  are  very  poor.  And  also  I  had  hoped  much  from  giving  you 
lessons.  I  thought  if  I  succeeded  as  I  expected  it  would  have 
brought  me  other  pupils." 

Basil  gazed  up  in  the  young  man's  face  for  a  moment  or  two 
without  speaking.  He  did  not  take  in  ideas  very  quickly,  and 
perhaps  he  had  never  before  in  his  life  thought  so  seriously  as 
at  this  moment. 

"I  see,"  he  said  at  last.  "I  did  not  understand  before.  If 
I  had  known — but  even  now  it  is  not  too  late.  Mr.  Wildermann. 
I  need  not  give  up  my  lessons.  I  will  ask  mother  to  let  me  go 
on  with  them,  and  you  will  see  she  will  agree  in  a  moment." 

A  gleam  of  pleasure  lighted  up  Ulric's  pale  face,  but  it 
faded  almost  as  quickly  as  it  had  come. 

"Thank  you  for  your  kind  thought,  my  little  friend,"  he 
said;  "but  what  you  propose  would  not  be  right.  It  would  not 
be  right  for  your  mother  to  pay  me  money  for  teaching  you  when 
she  had  decided  that  she  did  not  want  me  to  teach  you  any  more. 
It  would  be  a  mere  charity  to  me — it  would  be  more  honest  for 
me  to  ask  for  charity  at  once,"  he  went  on,  the  colour  mounting 
to  his  face.  "No,  Basil,  it  could  not  be;  but  thank  you  as  much. 
Now  let  us  go  on  with  our  lesson." 

Basil  understood,  but  was  not  satisfied.     The  lesson  passed 


BASIL'S  VIOLIN  297 

quietly.  Never  had  the  boy  so  thoroughly  given  his  attention, 
or  tried  so  hard  to  overcome  the  difficulties  which  had  so  dis- 
heartened him. 

"It  is  too  bad,"  he  said  to  himself;  "but  it  is  all  my  own 
fault.  I  believe  I  could  have  got  on  if  I  had  really  tried.  And 
now  it  is  too  late.  He  wouldn't  give  me  lessons  now,  for  he 
would  think  it  was  only  for  him." 

Suddenly  an  idea  struck  him. 

"Mr.  Wildermann,"  he  said,  "won't  you  do  this?  Suppose 
I  ask  for  just  six  lessons  more,  and  I  will  try.  You'll  see 
if  I  don't.  Well,  after  these  six,  if  I'm  not  getting  on  any  better, 
it'll  be  given  up.  But  if  I  am,  and  if  I  really  want  to  go  on,  you 
won't  think  it's  not  right,  will  you?" 

Ulric  hesitated. 

"No,"  he  said;  "I  have  no  scruples  in  going  on  teaching  you, 
for  I  feel  certain  you  could  learn  well  if  you  were  more  hopeful. 

But  you  must  explain  it   all   to   your   mother,   and — and " 

He  stopped  short,  and  then  went  on  resolutely.  "I  will  not 
be  ashamed.  It  is  for  my  mother — anything  for  her.  It  was 
only  the  feeling,  my  boy — but  perhaps  you  are  too  young  to 
understand — the  feeling  that  it  was  almost  like  asking  charity." 

"I  do  understand,"  exclaimed  Basil,  "and  I  don't  think  I 
need  tell  mother  yet,  Mr.  Wildermann.  I  don't  want  to  promise 
again,  and  perhaps  not  keep  my  promise.  I'll  just  ask  for  the 
six  lessons,  and  tell  mother  I  can't  tell  her  why  just  yet.  And 
then  think  how  surprised  she'll  be  if  I  really  do  get  on";  and  the 
boy's  eyes  sparkled  with  delight.  But  to  Ulric's  there  came  tears 
of  thankfulness. 

If  Lady  Iltyd  suspected  in  part  what  had  worked  the  change 
in  Basil's  ideas  and  prompted  his  request,  she  was  too  wise  to  say 
so.  His  petition  for  six  lessons  more  was  granted  willingly,  but 
not  lightly. 

"Do  you  really  mean  to  profit  by  them,  Basil?"  she  asked. 


298  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"If  so,  I  am  only  too  willing  that  you  should  go  on  and  give 
yourself  a  fair  trial." 

"That  is  it,  mother,"  said  the  boy  eagerly.  "I  want  to  see, 
to  try  if  I  can't  do  better.  At  least  that  is  partly  it,"  he  went 
on,  for  he  had  already  told  her  that  he  could  not  explain  the 
whole  just  yet. 

So  poor  Ulric  Wildermann  went  home  with  a  lighter  heart 
than  he  had  expected.  He  hoped  much  from  these  six  lessons,  for 
it  was  evident  that  Basil  meant  to  put  his  heart  into  them. 

"I  need  not  tell  my  mother  of  my  fears,"  thought  Ulric  to 
himself,  "for  they  may,  after  all,  prove  to  be  only  fears,  and  what 
would  be  the  use  of  making  her  miserable  in  such  a  case?"  And 
he  was  so  bright  and  cheerful  that  evening  in  the  little  sitting- 
room  over  the  grocer's  shop,  that  even  his  mother's  eyes  failed 
to  discover  that  he  had  had  more  than  usual  anxiety  that  day. 

One  week,  two  weeks,  three  weeks  passed.  It  was  the  day  of 
the  last  of  the  six  lessons. 

"Mother,"  said  Basil  that  morning  when  he  was  starting  for 
school,  "I  have  my  violin  lesson  this  afternoon  when  I  come  home, 
you  know.  Mr.  Wildermann  told  me  to  ask  you  if  you  would 
come  in  to-day  while  I  am  playing.  Not  at  the  beginning,  please, 
but  about  half-way  through.  He  wants  you  to  see  if  I  am  getting 
on  better,"  and  then,  with  a  very  happy  kiss,  he  was  off. 

Lady  Utyd  had  left  Basil  quite  to  himself  about  his  violin 
these  last  weeks.  She  had  not  heard  much  of  his  practising,  but 
she  had  noticed  that  he  got  his  school  lessons  done  quickly  and 
without  needing  to  be  reminded,  and  then  regularly  disappeared 
in  his  own  quarters,  and  she  had  her  private  hopes  and 
expectations. 

Nor  were  they  disappointed.  What  cannot  be  done  with 
patience  and  cheerfulness?  Those  three  weeks  had  seen  more 
progress  made  than  the  three  months  before,  and  Basil's  eyes 
danced  with  pleasure  when  be  left  off  playing  and  stood  waiting 
to  hear  what  his  mother  would  say. 


BASIL'S  VIOLIN  299 

She  said  nothing,  but  she  drew  him  to  her  and  kissed  him 
tenderly,  and  Basil,  peeping  up  half  shyly — for  somehow,  as  he 
told  Blanche  afterwards,  "mother's  pleased  kisses"  always  made 
him  feel  a  little  shy — saw  a  glimmer  of  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"You  are  pleased,  mother?"  he  whispered,  and  another  kiss 
was  the  answer.     Then  the  young  stranger  came  forward. 

"Mr.  Wildermann,  I  must  thank  you  for  all  the  trouble  you 
have  taken.  I  am  more  than  pleased,"  said  Lady  Iltyd  warmly. 
"How  have  you  succeeded  so  well?  You  have  taught  him  more 
than  his  music — you  have  taught  him  to  persevere,  and  to  keep 
up  heart  in  spite  of  difficulties." 

"He  has  taught  himself,  madame,"  said  Ulric  eagerly,  his 
face  flushing.  "It  was  his  kind  heart  that  gave  him  what  he 
needed.  Ah,  Master  Basil,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  his  little 
pupil,  "I  must  now  tell  the  whole,  and  then  it  will  be  to  say  if 
you  are  still  to  continue  your  lessons." 

"The  whole"  was  soon  told,  and  it  is  easy  to  understand  that 
it  did  not  lessen  Lady  Iltyd's  pleasure.  She  had  been  glad  to 
find  her  boy  capable  of  real  effort  and  determination— she  was 
still  more  glad  to  find  that  the  new  motive  which  had  prompted 
these  was  unselfish  sympathy  and  kindness. 

"I  thank  you  again,  Mr.  Wildermann,"  she  said,  when  the 
young  man  had  told  her  all,  "you  have,  as  I  said,  taught  Basil 
more  lessons  than  you  knew.  And  your  mother  is  happy  to  have 
so  good  a  son." 

Better  days  began  for  the  young  music-master.  Thanks  to 
Basil's  mother  and  to  Basil  himself,  for  the  boy  became  a  pupil 
who  would  have  done  credit  to  any  master,  Ulric  Wildermann 
gradually  made  his  way  in  the  neighbourhood  he  had  chosen  for 
his  new  home,  and  his  old  mother's  later  days  were  passed  in 
peace  and  comfort.  He  always  counted  Tarnworth  his  home, 
though  as  time  went  on  he  came  to  be  well  known  as  one  of  the 
first  violinists  of  the  day  in  London  and  others  of  the  great 
capitals  of  Europe. 


300  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

But  sometimes  when  his  success  and  popularity  were  at  the 
highest,  he  would  turn  to  the  friend  who  had  been  his  first  pupil, 
and  say  half  regretfully 

"You  might  excel  me  if  you  chose,  Basil.  I  could  sometimes 
find  it  in  my  heart  to  wish  that  you  too  had  been  born  a  poor 
boy  with  his  way  to  make  in  the  world." 

And  Basil  Iltyd  would  laugh  as  he  told  Ulric  that  his  affection 
made  him  over-estimate  his  pupil's  talent. 

"Though,  such  as  it  is,"  he  added,  "I  have  to  thank  you  for 
having  drawn  it  out,  and  added  untold  pleasure  to  my  life." 

For  though  Basil  had  too  many  other  duties  to  attend  to  for 
it  to  be  possible  for  him  to  devote  very  much  time  to  music,  he  never 
neglected  it,  and  never  forgot  the  gratitude  he  owed  his  mother 
for  encouraging  his  boyish  taste. 

"Above  all,"  Lady  Iltyd  used  often  to  say,  "as  in  mastering 
the  violin,  you  gained  your  first  battle  over  impatience  and  want 
of  perseverance." 

"My  first,  but  not  my  last,"  he  would  answer  brightly.  For 
Basil  came  to  be  known  for  steady,  cheerful  determination,  which, 
after  all,  is  worth  many  more  brilliant  gifts  in  the  journey 
through  life,  which  to  even  the  most  fortunate  is  uphill  and 
rugged  and  perplexing  at  times. 


THE   REEL  FAIRIES 

"Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  crown." 

Louisa  was  a  little  girl  of  eight  years  old.  That  is  to  say, 
she  Avas  eight  years  old  at  the  time  I  am  going  to  tell  you  about. 
She  was  nothing  particular  to  look  at;  she  was  small  for  her  age, 
and  her  face  was  rather  white,  and  her  eyes  were  pretty  much  the 
same  as  other  people's  eyes.  Her  hair  was  dark  brown,  but  it  was 
not  even  curly.  It  was  quite  straight-down  hair,  and  it  was  cut 
short,  not  quite  so  short  as  little  boys'  hair  is  cut  now-a-days, 
but  not  very  much  longer.  Many  little  girls  had  quite  short  hair 
at  that  time,  but  still  there  was  something  about  Louisa's  that 
made  its  shortness  remarkable,  if  anything  about  her  could  have 
been  remarkable !  It  was  so  very  smooth  and  soft,  and  fitted  into 
her  head  so  closely  that  it  gave  her  a  small  soft  look,  not  unlike 
a  mouse.  On  the  whole,  I  cannot  describe  her  better  than  by 
saying  she  was  rather  like  a  mouse,  or  like  what  you  could  fancy 
a  mouse  would  be  if  it  were  turned  into  a  little  girl. 

Louisa  was  not  shy,  but  she  was  timid  and  not  fond  of  putting 
herself  forward;  and  in  consequence  of  this,  as  well  as  from  her 
not  being  at  all  what  is  called  a  "showy"  child,  she  received  very 
little  notice  from  strangers,  or  indeed  from  many  who  knew  her 
pretty  well.  People  thought  her  a  quiet,  well-behaved  little  thing, 
and  then  thought  no  more  about  her.  Louisa  understood  this  in 
her  own  way,  and  sometimes  it  hurt  her.  She  was  not  so  un- 
observant as  she  seemed;  and  there  were  times  when  she  would 
have  very  much  liked  a  little  more  of  the  caressing,  and  even 
admiration,  which  she  now  and  then  saw  lavished  on  other  children; 
for  though  she  was  sensible  in  some  Avays,  in  others  she  was  not 
wiser  than  most  little  people. 

Her  home  was  not  in  the  country:  it  was  in  a  street,  in  a 

301 


302  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLES  WORTH 

large  and  rather  smoky  town.  The  house  in  which  she  lived  was 
not  a  very  pretty  one;  but,  on  the  whole,  it  was  nice  and  com- 
fortable, and  Louisa  was  generally  very  well  pleased  with  it, 
except  now  and  then,  when  she  got  little  fits  of  wishing  she  lived 
in  some  very  beautiful  palace  sort  of  house,  with  splendid  rooms, 
and  grand  staircases,  and  gardens,  and  fountains,  and  I  don't 
know  all  what — just  the  same  sort  of  little  fits  as  she  some- 
times had  of  wishing  to  be  very  pretty  and  to  have  lovely 
dresses,  and  to  be  admired  and  noticed  by  every  one  who  saw 
her.  She  never  told  anyone  of  these  wishes  of  hers;  perhaps  if 
she  had  it  would  have  been  better,  but  it  was  not  often  that 
she  could  have  found  any  one  to  listen  to  and  understand  her;  and 
so  she  just  kept  them  to  herself. 

There  was  one  person  who,  I  think,  could  have  understood 
her,  and  that  was  her  mother.  But  she  was  often  busy  and 
when  not  busy,  often  tired,  for  she  had  a  great  deal  to  do, 
and  several  other  little  children  besides  Louisa  to  take  care  of. 
There  were  two  brothers  who  came  nearest  Louisa  in  age,  one 
older  and  one  younger,  and  two  or  three  mites  of  children  smaller 
still.  The  brothers  went  to  school,  and  Avere  so  much  interested 
in  the  things  "little  boys  are  made  of,"  that  they  were  apt  to  be 
rather  contemptuous  to  Louisa  because  she  was  a  girl,  and  the 
wee  children  in  the  nursery  were  too  wee  to  think  of  anything 
but  their  own  tiny  pleasures  and  troubles.  So  you  can  under- 
stand that  though  she  had  really  everything  a  little  girl  could 
wish  for,  Louisa  was  sometimes  rather  lonely  and  at  a  loss  for 
companions,  and  this  led  to  her  making  friends  in  a  very  odd 
way  indeed.  If  you  guessed  for  a  whole  year  I  do  not  think 
you  would  ever  guess  whom,  or  I  should  say  what,  she  chose  for 
her  friends.  Indeed,  I  fear  that  when  I  tell  you  you  will 
hardly  believe  me;  you  will  think  I  am  "story-telling"  indeed. 
Listen — it  was  not  her  doll,  nor  a  pet  dog,  nor  even  a  favourite 
pussy-cat — it  was,  they  were  rather,  the  reels  in  her  mother's 
workbox. 


THE  REEL  FAIRIES  303 

Can  you  believe  it?  It  is  quite,  quite  true.  I  am  not 
"making  up"  at  all,  and  I  will  tell  you  how  it  came  about.  There 
was  one  part  of  the  day,  I  dare  say  it  was  the  hour  that  the 
nursery  children  were  asleep,  when  it  was  convenient  for  Louisa 
to  be  sent  down-stairs  to  sit  beside  her  mother  in  the  drawing- 
room,  with  many  injunctions  to  be  quiet.  Her  mother  was  gen- 
erally writing  or  "doing  accounts"  at  that  time,  and  not  at 
leisure  to  attend  to  her  little  girl;  but  when  Louisa  appeared  at 
the  door  she  would  look  up  and  say  with  a  smile,  "Well,  dear, 
and  what  will  you  have  to  amuse  yourself  with  to-day?"  At 
first  Louisa  used  to  consider  for  a  minute,  and  nearly  every  day 
she  would  make  a  different  request. 

"A  piece  of  paper  and  a  pencil  to  write,"  she  would  say 
on  Monday  perhaps,  and  on  Tuesday  it  would  be  "The  box  with 
the  chess,  please,"  and  on  Wednesday  something  else.  But 
after  a  while  her  answer  came  to  be  always  the  same — "Your 
big  workbox  to  tidy,  please,  mamma." 

Mamma  smiled  at  the  great  need  of  tidying  that  had  come 
over  her  big  workbox,  but  she  knew  she  could  certainly  trust 
Louisa  not  to  un-tidy  it,  so  she  used  just  to  push  it  across  the 
table  to  her  without  speaking,  and  then  for  an  hour  at  least 
nothing  more  was  heard  of  Louisa.  She  sat  quite  still,  fully  as 
absorbed  in  her  occupation  as  her  mother  was  in  hers,  till  at  last 
the  well-known  tap  at  the  door  would  bring  her  back  from 
dream-land. 

"Miss  Louisa,  your  dinner  is  waiting,"  or  "Miss  Louisa,  the 
little  ones  are  quite  ready  to  go  out;"  and,  with  a  deep  sigh, 
the  workbox  would  be  closed  and  the  little  girl  would  obey 
the  unwelcome  summons. 

And  next  day,  and  the  day  after,  and  a  great  many  days 
after  that,  it  was  always  the  same  thing.  But  nobody  knew 
anything  about  these  queer  friends  of  hers,  except  Louisa  herself. 

There  were  several  families  of  them,  and  their  names  were 
as   original   as  themselves.      There   were   the   Browns,    reels   of 


304  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

brown  wood  wound  with  white  cotton;  as  far  as  I  remember 
there  was  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brown  and  three  children;  the  Browns 
were  supposed  to  be  quiet,  respectable  people,  who  lived  in  a 
large  house  in  the  country,  but  had  nothing  particularly  romantic 
or  exciting  about  them.  There  were  the  De  Cordays,  so  named 
from  the  conspicuous  mark  of  "three  cord"  which  they  bore. 
They  were  a  set  of  handsome  bone,  or,  as  Louisa  called  it,  ivory 
reels,  and  she  added  the  "De"  to  their  name  to  make  it  sound 
grander.  There  were  two  pretty  little  reels  of  fine  China  silk, 
whom  she  distinguished  as  the  Chinese  princesses.  Blanche  and 
Rose  were  their  first  names,  to  suit  the  colours  they  bore,  for 
Louisa,  you  see,  had  learnt  a  little  French  already;  and  there  were 
some  larger  silk  reels,  whom  she  called  the  "Lords  and  Ladies 
Flossy."  Altogether  there  were  between  twenty  and  thirty  per- 
sonages in  the  workbox  community,  and  the  adventures  they  had, 
the  elegance  and  luxury  in  which  they  lived,  the  wonderful  stories 
they  told  each  other,  would  fill  more  pages  than  I  have  time 
to  write,  or  than  you,  kind  little  girls  that  you  are,  would  have 
patience  to  read.  I  must  hasten  on  to  tell  you  how  it  came  to 
pass  that  this  queer  fancy  of  Louisa's  was  discovered  by  other 
people. 

One  morning  when  she  was  sitting  quietly,  as  usual,  beside 

her  mother,  a  friend  of  Mrs. no,  we  need  not  tell  her  name, 

I  should  like  you  best  just  to  think  of  her  as  Louisa's  mamma 
— Well  then,  a  friend  of  Louisa's  mamma  came  to  call.  She 
was  a  lady  who  lived  in  the  country  several  miles  away  from 
Smokytown,  but  she  was  very  fond  of  Louisa's  mamma,  and 
whenever  she  had  to  come  to  Smokytown  to  shop,  or  anything  of 
that  kind,  perhaps  to  take  her  little  girl  (for  she  too  had  a  little 
girl  as  you  shall  hear)  to  the  dentist's,  she  always  came  early 
to  call  on  her  friend.  Louisa's  mamma  jumped  up  at  once,  when 
the  servant  threw  open  the  door  and  announced  the  lady  by 
name,  and  then  they  kissed  each  other,  and  then  Louisa's  mamma 
stooped  down  and  kissed  the  lady's  little  girl  who  was  standing 


©BY     DUFFIELD     &     COMPANY 

"No  sooner  was  she  seated   than  off  flew  the  work  box,   away,  away. 


THE  REEL  FAIRIES  305 

beside  her,  but  Louisa  sat  so  quietly  at  her  corner  of  the  table, 
that  for  a  minute  or  two  no  one  noticed  her.  She  was  just  think- 
ing if  she  could  manage  to  creep  down  under  the  table  and 
slip  away  out  of  the  room  without  being  seen,  when  her  mamma 
called    her. 

"Louisa,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "come  here  and  speak  to  Mrs. 
Gordon  and  to  Frances.  You  remember  Frances,  don't  you,  dear?" 

Louisa  got  down  slowly  off  her  chair  and  came  to  her  mamma. 
She  stood  looking  at  Frances  for  a  minute  or  two  without 
speaking. 

"Don't  you  remember  Frances?"  said  her  mamma  again. 

"No,"  said  Louisa  at  last,  "I  don't  think  I  do."  Then  she 
turned  away  as  if  she  were  going  back  to  her  place  at  the  table. 
Her  mamma  looked  vexed. 

"Poor  little  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Gordon,  "she  is  only  rather 
shy.     Frances,  you  must  make  friends  with  her." 

"Louisa,  I  am  not  pleased  with  you,"  said  her  mamma 
gravely,  and  then  she  went  on  talking  to  Mrs.  Gordon. 

Frances  followed  Louisa  to  the  table,  where  all  the  reels  were 
arranged  in  order.  There  was  a  grand  feast  going  on  among 
them  that  day;  one  of  the  Chinese  princesses  was  to  be  married 
to  one  of  the  Lords  Flossy,  and  Louisa  had  been  smartening 
them  up  for  the  occasion.  But  she  did  not  want  to  tell  Frances 
about  it. 

"I  am  only  playing  with  mamma's  workbox  things,"  she  said, 
looking  up  at  Frances,  and  wishing  she  had  not  come.  She  had 
taken  a  dislike  to  Frances,  and  the  reason  was  not  a  very  nice 
one — she  was  envious  of  her  because  she  had  such  a  pretty  face 
and  was  very  beautifully  dressed.  She  had  long  curls  of  bright 
light  hair,  and  large  blue  eyes,  and  she  had  a  purple  velvet  coat 
trimmed  with  fur,  and  a  sweet  little  bonnet  with  rosebuds  in  the 
cap,  and  Louisa's  mamma  would  never  let  her  have  rosebuds  or 
any  flowers  in  her  bonnets.  To  Louisa's  eyes  she  looked  almost 
as  beautiful  as  a  fairy  princess,  but  the  thought  vexed  her. 


306  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"Playing  with  your  mamma's  workbox  things,"  said  Frances, 
"how  very  funny!  You  poor  little  thing,  have  you  got  nothing 
else  to  play  with?" 

She  spoke  as  if  she  were  several  years  older  than  Louisa,  and 
this  made  Louisa  still  more  vexed. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "of  course  I  have  got  other  things,  but 
I  like  these.     You  can't  understand." 

Frances  smiled.  "How  funny  you  are!"  she  said  again,  "but 
never  mind.  Let  us  talk  of  something  nice.  Perhaps  you  would 
like  to  hear  what  things  J  have  got  to  play  with.  I  have  a  room 
all  for  myself,  filled  with  toys.  I  have  got  a  large  doll-house,  as 
tall  as  myself,  with  eight  rooms;  and  I  have  sixteen  dolls  of 
different  kinds.  They  were  mostly  birthday  presents.  But  I 
am  getting  too  big  to  care  for  them  now.  My  birthday  was  last 
week.  What  do  you  think  papa  gave  me?  Something  so  beautiful 
that  I  had  wanted  for  such  a  long  time.  I  don't  think  you  could 
guess." 

In  spite  of  herself  Louisa  was  becoming  interested.  "I  don't 
know,  I'm  sure,"  she  said;  "perhaps  it  was  a  book  full  of 
stories." 

Frances  shook  her  head.  "O  no,"  she  answered,  "it  wasn't. 
That  would  be  nothing  particular,  and  my  present  was  some- 
thing particular,  very  particular  indeed.  Well,  you  can't  guess, 
so  I'll  tell  you — it  was  a  Princess's  dress;  a  real  dress  you 
know;  a  dress  that  I  can  put  on  and  wear." 

"A  Princess's  dress,"  repeated  Louisa,  opening  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,"  said  Francis.  "I  call  it  a  Princess's 
dress,  because  it  is  copied  from  one  the  Princess  Fair  Star 
wore  at  the  pantomime  last  Christmas.  It  was  there  I  saw 
it,  and  I  have  teased  papa  ever  since  till  he  got  it  for  me.  And 
it  is  so  beautiful;  quite  beautiful  enough  for  a  queen  for  that 
matter.  My  papa  often  calls  me  his  queen,  sometimes  he  says 
his  golden-haired  queen.     Does  yours?" 

"No,"  said  Louisa  sadly;  "my  papa  sometimes  calls  me  his 


THE  REEL  FAIRIES  307 

pet,  and  sometimes  he  calls  me  'old  woman,'  but  he  never  says  I 
am  his  queen.     I  suppose  I  am  not  pretty  enough." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Frances,  consideringly,  "I  don't  think 
you're  ugly  exactly.  Perhaps  if  you  asked  your  papa  to  get 
you  a  Princess's  dress " 

"He  wouldn't,"  said  Louisa  decidedly,  "I  know  he  wouldn't. 
It  would  not  be  the  least  use  asking  him.  Tell  me  more  about 
yours — what  is  it  like,  and  does  it  make  you  feel  like  a  real 
princess  when  you  have  it  on?" 

"I  suppose  it  makes  me  look  like  one,"  replied  Frances 
complacently,  "and  as  for  feeling,  why  one  can  always  fancy, 
you  know." 

"Fancying  isn't  enough,"  said  Louisa.  "I  know  I  should 
dreadfully  like  to  be  a  princess  or  a  queen.  It  is  the  first  thing 
I  would  ask  a  fairy.  Perhaps  you  don't  wish  it  so  much 
because  every  one  pets  you  so,  and  thinks  you  so  pretty.  Has 
your  dress  got  silver  and  gold  on  it?" 

"O  yes,  at  least  it  has  silver — silver  spots,"  began  Frances 
eagerly,  but  just  then  her  mamma  turned  to  tell  her  that  they 
must  go.  "The  little  people  have  made  friends  very  quickly 
after  all,  you  see,"  she  said  to  Louisa's  mamma.  "Some  day 
you  must  really  bring  Louisa  to  see  Frances — it  has  been  such 
an  old  promise." 

"It  is  not  often  I  can  leave  home  for  a  whole  day,"  said 
Louisa's  mamma;  "and  then,  dear,  you  must  remember  not 
having  a  carriage  makes  a  difference." 

Louisa's  cheeks  grew  red.  She  felt  very  vexed  with  her 
mamma  for  telling  Mrs.  Gordon  they  had  no  carriage,  but  of 
course  she  did  not  venture  to  say  anything,  so  no  one  noticed 
her.  She  was  not  sorry  when  Mrs.  Gordon  and  Frances  said 
good-bye  and  went  away. 

That  same  evening,  a  little  before  bed-time,  Louisa  hap- 
pened to  be  again  in  the  drawing-room  alone  with  her  mother. 

"Louisa,"   said  her  mother,  who  was  sewing  at  the  table, 


308  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLES^WORTH 

"you  did  not  leave  my  workbox  as  neat  as  usual  this  morning. 
I  suppose  it  was  because  you  were  interrupted  by  Frances 
Gordon.  Come  here,  dear,  and  take  the  box  and  put  it  on  a 
chair  near  the  fire  and  arrange  it  rightly.  Here  is  a  whloe  col- 
lection of  reels  rolling  about.     Put  them  all  in  their  places." 

Louisa  did  as  she  was  told,  but  without  speaking.  Indeed 
she  had  been  very  silent  all  day,  but  her  mother  had  been 
occupied  with  other  things  and  had  not  noticed  her  particularly. 
Louisa  quietly  put  the  reels  into  their  places,  giving  the  most 
comfortable  corners  to  her  favourites  as  usual,  and  huddling 
some  of  the  others  together  rather  unceremoniously.  Then  she 
sat  down  on  the  hearth-rug,  and  began  to  think  of  what  Frances 
Gordon  had  said  to  her,  and  to  wish  all  sorts  of  not  very  wise 
things.  She  felt  herself  at  last  growing  drowsy,  so  she  leant 
her  little  round  head  on  the  chair  beside  her,  and  was  almost 
asleep,  When  she  heard  her  mother  say,  "Louisa,  my  dear,  you 
are  getting  sleepy,  you  must  really  go  to  bed." 

"Yes,  mamma,"  she  said,  or  intended  to  say,  but  the  words 
sounded  faint  and  dreamlike,  and  before  they  were  fully  pro- 
nounced she  was  fairly  asleep! 

She  remembered  nothing  more  for  what  seemed  a  very  long 
time — then  to  her  surprise  she  found  herself  already  undressed 
and  in  her  own  little  bed!  "Nurse  must  have  carried  me  up- 
stairs and  undressed  me,"  she  thought,  and  she  opened  her  eyes 
very  wide  to  see  if  it  was  still  the  middle  of  the  night.  No, 
surely  it  could  not  be;  the  room  Avas  quite  light,  yet  where  was 
the  light  coming  from?  It  was  not  coming  in  at  the  window — 
there  was  no  window  to  be  seen;  the  curtains  were  drawn 
across,  and  no  tiny  chink  even  was  visible;  there  was  no  lamp 
or  candle  in  the  room, — the  light  was  simply  there,  but  where 
it  came  from  Louisa  could  not  discover.  She  got  tired  of 
wondering  about  it  at  last,  and  was  composing  herself  to  sleep 
again,  When  suddenly  a  small  but  very  clear  voice  called  her  by 
name.      "Louisa,    Louisa,"   it   said.      She    did   not    feel   at   all 


THE  REEL  FAIRIES  309 

frightened.      She    half    raised    herself    in    hed    and    exclaimed, 
"Who  is  speaking  to  me?    What  do  you  want?" 

"Louisa,  Louisa,"  the  voice  repeated,   "would  you  like  to  be 
a  queen?" 

"Very  much  indeed,  thank  you,"  Louisa  replied  promptly. 
"Then  rub  your  eyes  and  look  about  you,"  said  the  voice. 

Louisa  rubbed  her  eyes  and  looked  about  her  to  some  pur- 
pose, for  what  do  you  think  she  saw?  All  the  white  counter- 
pane of  her  little  bed  was  covered  with  tiny  figures,  of  various 
sizes,  from  one  inch  to  three  or  four  in  height.  They  were 
hopping,  and  dancing,  and  twirling  themselves  about  in  every 
imaginable  way,  like  nothing  anybody  ever  saw  before,  or  since, 
or  ever  will  again. 

"Fairies!"  thought  Louisa  at  once,  and  without  any  feeling 
of  overwhelming  surprise,  for,  like  most  children,  she  had  al- 
ways been  hoping,  and  indeed  half  expecting,  that  some  day 
an  adventure  of  this  kind  would  fall  to  her  share. 

"Yes,  fairies,"  said  the  same  voice  as  before,  which  seemed 
to  hear  her  thoughts  as  distinctly  as  if  she  had  spoken  them; 
"but  what  kind  of  fairies?     Look  at  us  again,  Louisa." 

Louisa  opened  her  eyes  wider  and  stared  harder.  There 
were  all  kinds  of  fairies,  gentleman  and  ladies,  little  and  big; 
but  as  she  looked  she  saw  that  every  one  of  them,  without  ex- 
ception, "wore  a  curious  sort  of  round  stiff  jacket,  more  like  a 
little  barrel  than  anything  else.  It  gave  them  a  queer  high- 
shouldered  look,  very  like  the  little  figures  of  Noah  and  his 
family  in  toy  arks ;  but  as  Louisa  was  staring  at  them  the  mystery 
was  explained.  A  big,  rather  clumsy-looking  gentleman  fairy, 
stopped  for  a  moment  in  his  gymnastics,  and  Louisa  read  on 
the  ledge  round  his  shoulders  the  familiar  words  "Clark  and 
Co.'s  best  six-cord,  extra  quality,  No.  12." 

"I  know,"  she  cried,  clapping  her  hands;  "you're  mamma's 
reels!" 


310  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

At  these  words  a  sensation  ran  through  the  company;  they 
all  stood  stock-still,  and  Louisa  began  to  feel  a  little  afraid. 

"She  says,"  exclaimed  the  voice,  "she  says  we're  her 
mamma's  reels!" 

There  fell  a  dead  silence;  Louisa  expected  to  be  sentenced 
to  undergo  capital  punishment  on  the  spot.  "It's  too  bad," 
she  said  to  herself,  "it's  too  bad;  they  asked  me  to  guess  who 
they  were." 

"She  says,"  continued  the  voice,  "she  says  'it's  too  bad.' 
What  is  too  bad?    My  friends,  let  the  deputation  stand  forward." 

Instantly  about  a  dozen  fairies  separated  themselves  from 
the  others  and  advanced,  slowly  marching  two  and  two  up 
the  counterpane,  till  having  made  their  way  across  the  various 
hills  and  valleys  formed  by  Louisa's  little  figure  under  the  bed- 
clothes, they  drew  up  just  in  front  of  her  nose.  Foremost  of 
the  deputation  she  recognised,  the  one  clad  in  pink  satin,  the 
other  in  glistening  white,  her  two  favourites  the  Princesses 
Blanche  and  Rose. 

"Beautiful  Louisa,"  said  the  deputation,  all  speaking  at 
once,  "we  have  come  to  ask  you  to  be  our  queen." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Louisa,  not  knowing  what  else  to  say. 

"She  consents!"  exclaimed  the  deputation,  "let  the  royal 
chariot  appear." 

Thereupon  there  suddenly  started  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
bed,  as  large  as  life,  but  no  larger,  her  mamma's  big  workbox! 
The  fairies  all  clambered  on  to  it  with  a  rush,  and  hung  upon 
it  in  every  direction,  like  bees  on  a  hive,  or  firemen  on  a  fire- 
engine;  and  no  sooner  were  they  all  mounted  than  the  workbox 
slowly  glided  along  till  it  was  close  to  Louisa's  face. 

"Will  your  majesty  please  to  get  in?"  said  one  of  the 
fairies,  "Clark's  No.  12,  extra  quality,"  I  think  it  was. 

"How  can  I?"  said  Louisa  piteously,  "how  can  I?  I'm  far 
too  big.     How  can  I  get  into  a  workbox?" 


THE  REEL  FAIRIES  311 

"Please  to  rub  your  eyes  and  try,"  said  the  big  fairy, 
"right  foot  foremost,  if  you  please." 

Louisa  rubbed  her  eyes,  and  pulling  her  right  foot  out  from 
under  the  clothes,  stepped  on  to  the  workbox. 

To  her  surprise,  or  rather  not  to  her  surprise,  everything 
seemed  to  come  quite  naturally,  she  found  that  she  was  not  at 
all  too  big,  and  she  settled  herself  in  the  place  the  fairies  had 
kept  for  her,  the  nice  little  division  lined  with  satin,  in  which 
her  mamma's  thimble  and  emery  cushion  always  lay.  It  was 
pretty  comfortable,  only  rather  hard,  but  Louisa  had  no  time 
to  think  about  that,  for  no  sooner  was  she  seated  than  off  flew 
the  workbox,  that  is  to  say  the  royal  chariot,  away,  away, 
Louisa  knew  not  where,  and  felt  too  giddy  to  try  to  think.  It 
stopped  at  last  as  suddenly  as  it  had  started,  and  quick  as 
thought  all  the  fairies  jumped  down.  Louisa  followed  them 
more  deliberately.  She  found  herself  in  a  great  shining  hall, 
the  walls  seemed  to  be  of  looking-glass,  but  when  she  observed 
them  more  closely  she  found  they  were  made  of  innumerable 
needles,  all  fastened  together  in  some  wonderful  fairy  fashion, 
which  she  had  not  time  to  examine,  for  just  then  the  Chinese 
princesses  approached  her,  carrying  between  them  a  glistening 
dress,  which  they  begged  her  to  put  on.  They  were  quite  as 
tall  as  she  by-the-by,  so  she  allowed  them  to  dress  her,  and  then 
examined  herself  with  great  satisfaction  in  the  looking-glass 
walls.  The  dress  was  lovely,  of  that  there  was  no  doubt;  it  was 
just  such  a  one,  curiously  enough,  as  Frances  Gordon  had 
described;  the  only  drawback  was  her  short  hair,  which  certainly 
did  not  add  to  her  regal  appearance. 

"It  won't  show  so  much  when  your  majesty  has  the  crown 
on,"  said  the  Chinese  princesses,  answering  as  before  to  Louisa's 
unspoken  thoughts.  Then  some  gentlemen  fairies  appeared  with 
the  crown,  which  fitted  exactly,  only  it  felt  rather  heavy.  But 
it  would  never  do  for  a  queen  to  complain,  even  in  thought, 
of  so  trifling  a  matter,  so  with  great  dignity  Louisa  ascended 


312  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

the  throne  which  stood  at  one  end  of  the  hall,  and  sat  down  upon 
it  to  see  what  would  come  next. 

The  Fairies  came  next.  One  after  the  other,  by  dozens,  and 
scores,  and  hundreds,  they  passed  before  her,  each  as  he  passed 
making  the  humblest  of  obeisances,  as  if  to  the  Great  Mogul 
himself.  It  was  very  fine  indeed,  but  after  a  while  Louisa  began 
to  get  rather  tired  of  it,  and  though  the  throne  was  very  grand 
to  look  at,  it  too  felt  rather  hard,  and  the  crown  grew  decidedly 
heavier. 

"I  think  I'd  like  to  come  down  for  a  little,"  she  said  to 
some  of  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  beside  her,  but  they  took 
no  notice.  "I'd  like  to  get  down  for  a  little  and  to  take  off 
my  crown — it's  hurting  my  head,  and  this  spangly  dress  is  so 
cold,"  she  continued.     Still  the  fairies  took  no  notice. 

"Don't  you  hear  what  I  say?"  she  exclaimed  again,  getting 
angry;  "what's  the  use  of  being  a  queen  if  you  won't  an- 
swer me?" 

Then  at  last  some  of  the  fairies  standing  beside  the  throne 
appeared  to  hear  what  she  was  saying. 

"Her  majesty  wishes  to  take  a  little  exercise,"  said  "Clark's 
No.  12,"  and  immediately  the  words  were  repeated  in  a  sort 
of  confusing  buzz  all  round  the  hall.  "Her  majesty  wishes  to 
take  a  little  exercise" — "her  majesty  wishes  to  take  a  little 
exercise,"  till  Louisa  could  have  shaken  them  all  heartily,  she 
felt  so  provoked.  Then  suddenly  the  throne  began  to  squeak 
and  grunt  (Louisa  thought  it  was  going  to  talk  about  her  taking 
exercise  next),  and  after  it  had  given  vent  to  all  manner  of 
unearthly  sounds  it  jerked  itself  up,  first  on  one  side  and  then 
on  the  other,  like  a  very  rheumatic  old  woman,  and  at  last 
slowly  moved  away.  None  of  the  fairies  were  pushing  it,  that 
was  plain;  and  at  first  Louisa  was  too  much  occupied  in  won- 
dering what  made  it  move,  to  find  fault  with  the  mode  of  exercise 
permitted  to  her.  The  throne  rolled  slowly  along,  all  round 
the  hall,  and  wherever  it  appeared  a  crowd  of  fairies  scuttled 


THE  REEL  FAIRIES  313 

away,  all  chattering  the  same  words — "Her  majesty  is  taking  a 
little  exercise,"  till  at  last,  with  renewed  jerks  and  grunts  and 
groans,  her  queer  conveyance  settled  itself  again  in  its  old  place. 
As  soon  as  it  was  still,  Louisa  tried  to  get  down,  but  no  sooner 
did  she  put  a  foot  on  the  ground  than  a  crowd  of  fairies  re- 
spectfully lifted  it  up  again  on  to  the  footstool.  This  happened 
two  or  three  times,  till  Louisa's  patience  was  again  exhausted. 

"Get  out  of  my  way,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  horrid  little 
things,  get  out  of  my  way;  I  want  to  get  down  and  run  about." 

But  the  fairies  took  no  notice  of  what  she  said,  till  for  the 
third  time  she  repeated  it.     Then  they  all  spoke  at  once. 

"Her  majesty  wants  to  take  a  little  more  exercise,"  they 
buzzed  in  all  directions,  till  Louisa  was  so  completely  out  of 
patience  that  she  burst  into  tears. 

"I  won't  stay  to  be  your  queen,"  she  said,  "it's  not  nice 
at  all.  I  want  to  go  home  to  my  mamma.  I  want  to  go  home 
to  my  mamma.     I  want  to  go  home  to  my  mamma." 

"We  don't  know  what  mammas  are,"  said  the  fairies.  "We 
haven't  anything  of  that  kind  here." 

"That's  a  story,"  said  Louisa.  "There — are  mammas  here. 
I've  seen  several.  There's  Mrs.  Brown,  and  there's  Lady  Floss, 
and  there's — no,  the  Chinese  princesses  haven't  a  mamma.  But 
you  see  there  are  two  among  my  mamma's  own  reels  in  her 
workb " 

But  before  she  could  finish  the  word  the  fairies  all  set 
up  a  terrific  shout.  "The  word,  the  word,"  they  cried,  "the 
word  that  no  one  must  mention  here.     Hush!  hush!  hush!" 

They  all  turned  upon  Louisa  as  if  they  were  going  to  tear 
her  to  pieces.  In  her  terror  she  uttered  a  piercing  scream, 
and — woke. 

She  wasn't  in  bed;  where  was  she?  Could  she  be  in  the 
workbox?  Wherever  she  was  it  was  quite  dark  and  cold,  and 
something  was  pressing  against  her  head,  and  her  legs  were 
aching.     Suddenly  there  came  a  flash  of  light.     Some  one  had 


314  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

opened  the  door,  and  the  light  from  the  hall  streamed  in.  The 
some  one  was  Louisa's  mamma. 

"Who  is  in  here?  Did  I  hear  some  one  calling  out?"  she 
exclaimed  anxiously. 

Louisa  was  slowly  recovering  her  wits.  "It  was  me, 
mamma,"  she  answered;  "I  didn't  know  where  I  was,  and  I  was 
so  frightened  and  I  am  so  cold.     Oh  mamma!" 

A  flood  of  tears  choked  her. 

"You  poor  child,"  exclaimed  her  mamma,  hurrying  back  to 
the  hall  to  fetch  a  lamp,  as  she  spoke,  "why,  you  have  fallen 
asleep  on  the  hearthrug,  and  the  fire's  out;  and  my  workbox — 
what  is  it  doing  here?     Were  you  using  it  for  a  pillow?" 

"No,"  said  Louisa,  eyeing  the  workbox  suspiciously,  "it 
was  on  the  chair,  and  the  corner  of  it  has  hurt  my  head,  mamma; 
it  was   pressing  against  it." 

Her  mamma  lifted  the  box  on  to  the  table. 

"Are  they  all  in  there,  mamma?"  whispered  Louisa,  timidly. 

"All  in  where?  All  who?  What  are  you  speaking  about, 
my  dear?" 

"The  fairies — the  reels  I  mean,"  replied  Louisa. 

"My  dear,  you  are  dreaming  still,"  said  her  mamma,  laugh- 
ing, but  seeing  that  Louisa  looked  dissatisfied,  "never  mind, 
you  shall  tell  me  your  dreams  to-morrow.  But  just  now  you 
must  really  go  to  bed.  It  is  nine  o'clock — you  have  been  two 
hours  asleep.  I  went  out  of  the  room  in  a  hurry,  taking  the 
lamp  with  me  because  it  was  not  burning  rightly,  and  then  I 
heard  baby  crying — he  is  very  cross  to-night — and  both  nurse 
and  I  forgot  about  you.  Now  go,  dear,  and  get  well  warmed 
at  the  nursery  fire  before  you  go  to  bed." 

Louisa  trotted  off.  She  had  no  more  dreams  that  night, 
but  when  she  woke  the  next  morning,  her  poor  little  legs 
were  still  aching.  She  had  caught  cold  the  night  before,  there 
was  no  doubt,  so  her  mamma,  taking  some  blame  to  herself 
for  her  having  fallen  asleep  on  the  floor,  was  particularly  kind 


THE  REEL  FAIRIES  315 

and  indulgent  to  her.  She  brought  her  down  to  the  drawing- 
room  wrapped  in  a  shawl,  and  established  her  comfortably  in 
an  arm-chair. 

"What  will  you  have  to  play  with?"  she  asked.  "Would 
you  like  my  workbox?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Louisa,  doubtfully.  "Mamma,"  she 
continued,  after  a  moment's  silence,  "can  queens  never  do  what 
they  like?" 

"Very  often  they  can't,"  replied  her  mamma.  "What  makes 
you  ask?" 

"I  dreamt  I  was  a  queen,"  said  Louisa. 

"Did  you?     What  country  were  you  queen  of?" 

"I  was  queen  of  the  reel  fairies,"  replied  the  child  gravely. 
Her  mother  looked  mystified. 

"Tell  me  what  you  mean,  dear,"  she  said.  "Tell  me  all 
about  it." 

So  bit  by  bit  Louisa  explained  the  whole,  and  her  mamma 
had  for  once  a  peep  into  that  strange,  fantastic,  mysterious 
"world,  which  we  call  a  child's  imagination.  She  had  a  glimpse 
of  something  else  too.  She  saw  that  her  little  girl  was  in  danger 
of  getting  to  live  too  much  alone,  was  in  need  of  sympathy  and 
companionship. 

"I  think  it  was  what  Frances  Gordon  said  that  made  me 
dream  about  being  a  queen,"  she  said. 

"And  do  you  still  wish  you  were  a  queen?"  said  her  mamma. 

"No,"  said  Louisa. 

"A  princess  then?" 

"No,"   she  replied  again.     "But,   mamma " 

"Well,  dear?" 

"I  do  wish  sometimes  that  I  was  pretty,  and  that — that; 
— I  don't  know  how  to  say  it — that  people  made  a  fuss  about 
me  sometimes." 

Her  mamma  looked  a  little  grave  and  a  little  sad;  but 
still  she  smiled.     She  could  not  be  angry — thought  Louisa. 


316  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"Is   it  naughty,   mamma?"   she   whispered. 

"Naughty?  No,  dear;  it  is  a  wish  most  little  girls  have,  I 
fancy — and  big  ones  too.  But  some  day  you  will  understand 
how  it  might  grow  into  a  wrong  feeling,  and  how  on  the  other 
side  a  little  of  it  may  be  useful  to  help  good  feelings.  And 
till  you  understand  better,  dear,  doesn't  it  make  you  happy  to 
know  that  to  me  you  could  not  be  dearer  if  you  were  the  most 
beautiful  little  princess  in  the  world." 

"As  beautiful  as  Princess  Fair  Star,  mamma?" 

"Yes,  or  any  other  princess  you  can  think  of.  I  would 
rather  have  my  little  mouse  of  a  girl  than  any  of  them." 

Louisa  nestled  closer  to  her  mamma  with  great  satisfaction. 
"I  like  you  to  call  me  j^our  mouse,  mamma;  and  do  you  know  I 
almost  think  I  like  having  a  cold." 

Her  mother  laughed.  "Am  I  making  a  little  fuss  about 
you?     Is  that  what  you   like?" 

Louisa  laughed  too. 

"Do  you  think  I  should  leave  off  playing  with  the  reels, 
and  making  stories  about  them,  mamma?     Is  it  silly?" 

"No,  dear,  not  if  it  amuses  you,"  said  her  mother. 

But  though  Louisa  did  not  leave  off  playing  with  the 
reels  altogether,  she  gradually  came  to  find  that  she  preferred 
other  amusements.  Her  mother  taught  her  several  pretty  kinds 
of  work,  and  read  aloud  stories  to  her  more  often  than 
formerly.  And,  somehow,  Louisa  never  again  cared  quite  as 
much  for  her  old  friends.  She  thought  the  Chinese  princesses 
had  grown  rather  "stuck-up"  and  affected,  and  she  could  not 
get  over  a  strong  suspicion  that  "Clark's  No.  12"  was  very 
ready  to  be  impertinent,  if  he  could  ever  again  get  a  chance. 


THE  BLUE  DWARF 

AN  ADVENTURE  IN  THURINGEN 

"And  then  on  the  top  of  the  Caldon  Low 
There  was  no  one  left  but  me." 

Mary  Howitt. 

"I  liked  the  blue  dwarfs  the  best — far,  far  the  best  of  any- 
thing," said  Olive. 

"  'The  blue  dwarfs?'  "  repeated  Rex.  "What  do  you  mean? 
Why  can't  you  say  what  you  mean  plainly?  Girls  have  such  a 
stupid  way  of  talking!" 

"What  can  be  plainer  than  the  blue  dwarfs?"  said  Olive 
rather  snappishly,  though,  it  must  be  allowed,  with  some  reason. 
"We  were  talking  about  the  things  we  liked  best  at  the  china 
place.  You  said  the  stags'  heads  and  the  inkstands,  and  I  say 
the  blue  dwarfs." 

"But  I  didn't  see  any  dwarfs,"  persisted  Rex. 

"Well,  I  can't  help  it  if  you  didn't.  You  had  just  as  much 
chance  of  seeing  them  as  I  had.  They  were  in  a  corner  by  them- 
selves— little  figures  about  two  inches  high,  all  with  blue  coats 
on.  There  were  about  twelve  of  them,  all  different,  but  all  little 
dwarfs  or  gnomes.  One  was  sitting  on  a  barrel,  one  was  turn- 
ing head-over-heels,  one  was  cuddling  his  knees — all  funny  ways 
like  that.     Oh,  they  were  lovely!" 

"I  wish  I  had  seen  them  better,"  said  Rex  regretfully.  "I 
do  remember  seeing  a  tray  full  of  little  blue-looking  dolls,  but 
I  didn't  notice  Avhat  they  were." 

Olive  did  not  at  once  answer.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
something  she  saw  passing  before  the  window.  It  was  a  very, 
very  little  man.  He  was  not  exactly  hump-backed,  but  his 
figure  was  somewhat  deformed,  and  he  was  so  small  that  but  for 

317 


318  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

the  sight  of  his  rather  wizened  old  face  one  could  hardly  have 
believed  he  was  a  full-grown  man.  His  eyes  were  bright  and 
beady-looking,  like  those  of  a  good-natured  little  weasel,  if  there 
be  such  a  thing,  and  his  face  lighted  up  with  a  smile  as  he  caught 
sight  of  the  two,  to  him,  strange-looking  children  at  the  open 
window  of  the  little  village  inn. 

"Good  day,"  he  said,  nodding  to  them;  and  "good  day," 
replied  the  children,  as  they  had  learnt  to  do  by  this  time  to 
everybody  they  met.  For  in  these  remote  villages  it  would  be 
thought  the  greatest  breach  of  courtesy  to  pass  any  one  without 
this  friendly  greeting. 

Rex  drew  a  long  breath  when  the  dwarf  had  passed. 

"Olive "  he  began,  but  Olive  interrupted  him. 

"Rex,"  she  said  eagerly,  "that's  exactly  like  them — like  the 
blue  dwarfs,  I  mean.  Only,  of  course,  their  faces  were  prettier 
— nice  little  china  faces,  rather  crumply  looking,  but  quite  nice; 
and  then  their  coats  were  such  a  pretty  nice  blue.  I  think," 
she  went  on  consideringly — "I  think,  if  I  had  that  little  man 
and  washed  his  face  very  well,  and  got  him  a  bright  blue  coat, 
he  would  look  just  like  one  of  the  blue  dwarfs  grown  big." 

Rex  looked  at  Olive  with  a  queer  expression. 

"Olive,"  he  said  in  rather  an  awe-struck  tone;  "Olive,  do 
you  think  perhaps  they're  real?  Do  you  think  perhaps  some- 
where in  this  country — in  those  queer  dark  woods,  perhaps — that 
there  are  real  blue  dwarfs,  and  that  somebody  must  have  seen 
them  and  made  the  little  china  ones  like  them?  Perhaps,"  and  his 
voice  dropped  and  grew  still  and  solemn;  "perhaps,  Olive,  that 
little  man's  one  of  them,  and  they  may  have  to  take  off  their  blue 
coats  when  they're  walking  about.  Do  you  know,  I  think  it's 
a  little,  just  a  very  little  frightening?    Don't  you,  Olive?" 

"No,  of  course  I  don't,"  said  Olive,  and,  to  do  her  justice, 
her  rather  sharp  answer  was  meant  as  much  to  reassure  her  little 
brother  as  to  express  any  feeling  of  impatience.  Rex  was  quite 
a  little   fellow,  only  eight,   and   Olive,   who   was   nearly   twelve, 


THE  BLUE  DWARFS  319 

remembered  that  when  she  was  as  little  as  that,  she  used  some- 
times to  feel  frightened  about  things  which  she  now  couldn't  see 
anything  the  least  frightening  in.  And  she  remembered  how 
once  or  twice  some  of  her  big  cousins  had  laughed  at  her,  and 
amused  themselves  by  telling  her  all  sorts  of  nonsense,  which 
still  seemed  terrible  to  her  when  she  was  alone  in  her  room 
in  the  dark  at  night.  "Of  course  there's  nothing  frightening  in 
it,"  she  said.  "It  would  be  rather  a  funny  idea,  I  think.  Of 
course  it  can't  be,  you  know,  Rex.  There  are  no  dwarfs,  and 
gnomes,  and  fairies  now." 

"But  that  little  man  was  a  dwarf,"  said  Rex. 

"Yes,  but  a  dwarf  needn't  be  a  fairy  sort  of  person," 
explained  Olive.  "He's  just  a  common  little  man,  only  he's 
never  grown  as  big  as  other  people.  Perhaps  he  had  a  bad  fall 
when  he  was  a  baby — that  might  stop  his  growing." 

"Would  it?"  said  Rex.  "I  didn't  know  that.  I  hope  I  hadn't 
a  bad  fall  when  I  was  a  baby.  Everybody  says  I'm  very  small 
for  my  age."  And  Rex  looked  with  concern  at  his  short  but 
sturdy  legs. 

Olive  laughed  outright. 

"Oh,  Rex,  what  a  funny  boy  you  are!  No,  certainly,  you 
are  not  a  dwarf.     You're  as  straight  and  strong  as  you  can  be." 

"Well,  but,"  said  Rex,  returning  to  the  first  subject,  "I  do 
think  it's  very  queer  about  that  little  dwarf  man  coming  up  the 
street  just  as  you  were  telling  me  about  the  blue  dwarfs.  And  he 
did  look  at  us  in  a  funny  way,  Olive,  whatever  you  say,  just  as 
if  he  had  heard  what  we  were  talking  about." 

"All  the  people  look  at  us  in  a  funny  way  here,"  said  Olive. 
"We  must  look  very  queer  to  them.  Your  sailor  suit,  Rex,  and 
my  'Bolero'  hat  must  look  to  them  quite  as  queer  as  the  women's 
purple  skirts,  with  bright  green  aprons,  look  to  us." 

"Or  the  bullock-carts,"  said  Rex.  "Do  you  remember  how 
queer  we  thought  them  at  first.  Now  we've  got  quite  used  to 
seeing  queer  things,  haven't  we,  Olive?     Oh,  now  do  look  there 


320  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

— at  the  top  of  the  street — there,  Olive,  did  you  ever  see  such  a 
load  as  that  woman  is  carrying  in  the  basket  on  her  back?  Why, 
it's  as  big  as  a  house!" 

He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  about  the  dwarfs,  and  Olive 
was  rather  glad  of  it.  These  two  children  were  travelling  with 
their  uncle  and  aunt  in  a  rather  out-of-the-way  part  of  Europe. 
Out-of-the-way,  that  is  to  say,  to  most  of  the  regular  summer 
tourists  from  other  countries,  who  prefer  going  Avhere  they  are 
more  sure  of  finding  the  comforts  and  luxuries  they  are  accus- 
tomed to  at  home.  But  it  was  by  no  means  out-of-the-way  in 
the  sense  of  being  dull  or  deserted.  It  is  a  very  busy  part  of  the 
world  indeed.  You  would  be  amazed  if  I  were  to  tell  you  some 
of  the  beautiful  things  that  are  made  in  these  bare,  homely  little 
peasant  cottages.  For  all  about  in  the  neighbourhood  there  are 
great  manufactories  and  warehouses  for  china  and  glass  and 
many  other  things;  and  some  parts  of  the  work  are  done  by  the 
people  at  home  in  their  own  houses.  The  morning  of  the  day  of 
which  I  am  telling  you  had  been  spent  by  the  children  and  their 
friends  in  visiting  a  very  large  china  manufactory,  and  their 
heads  were  full  of  the  pretty  and  wonderful  things  they  had 
seen. 

And  now  they  were  waiting  in  the  best  parlour  of  the  village 
inn  while  their  uncle  arranged  about  a  carriage  to  take  them  all 
on  to  the  small  town  where  they  were  to  stay  a  few  days.  Their 
aunt  was  tired,  and  was  resting  a  little  on  the  sofa,  and  they  had 
planted  themselves  on  the  broad  window-sill,  and  were  looking 
out  with  amusement  at  all  that  passed. 

"What  have  you  two  been  chattering  about  all  this  time?" 
said  their  aunt,  suddenly  looking  up.  "I  think  I  must  have  been 
asleep  a  little,  but  I  have  heard  your  voices  going  on  like  two 
birds  twittering." 

"Have  we  disturbed  you,  Auntie?"  asked  Olive,  with  concern. 

"Oh,  no,  not  a  bit;  but  come  here  and  tell  me  what  you  have 
been  talking  about." 


THE  BLUE  DWARFS  321 

Instantly  Rex's  mind  went  back  to  the  dwarfs. 

"Auntie,"  he  said  seriously,  "perhaps  you  can  tell  me  better 
than  Olive  can.  Are  there  really  countries  of  dwarfs,  and  are 
they  a  kind  of  fairies,  Auntie?" 

Auntie  looked  rather  puzzled. 

"Dwarfs,  Rex?"  she  said;  "countries  of  dwarfs?  How  do 
you  mean?" 

Olive  hastened  to  explain.    Auntie  was  very  much  amused. 

"Certainly,"  she  said,  "we  have  already  seen  so  many  strange 
things  in  our  travels  that  it  is  better  not  to  be  too  sure  what 
we  may  not  see.  But  anyway,  Rex,  you  may  be  quite  easy  in 
your  mind,  that  if  ever  you  come  across  any  of  the  dwarfs, 
you  will  find  them  very  good-natured  and  amiable,  only  you 
must  be  very  respectful — always  say  'Sir,'  or  'My  lord,'  or  some- 
thing like  that  to  them,  and  bow  a  great  deal.  And  you  must 
never  seem  to  think  anything  they  do  the  least  odd,  not  even  if 
they  propose  to  you  to  walk  on  your  head,  or  to  eat  roast  fir- 
cones for  dinner,  for  instance." 

Auntie  was  quite  young — not  so  very  much  older  than  Olive 
— and  very  merry.  Olive's  rather  "grown-up"  tones  and  man- 
ners used  sometimes  to  tempt  her  to  make  fun  of  the  little 
girl,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  Olive  did  not  always  take  quite  in 
good  part.  And  it  must  for  Olive  be  allowed,  that  Auntie  did 
sometimes  allow  her  spirits  and  love  of  fun  to  run  away  with 
her  a  little  too  far,  just  like  pretty  unruly  ponies,  excited  by 
the  fresh  air  and  sunshine,  who  toss  their  heads  and  gallop  off. 
It  is  great  fun  at  first  and  very  nice  to  see,  but  one  is  sometimes 
afraid  they  may  do  some  mischief  on  the  way — without  meaning 
it,  of  course;  and,  besides,  it  is  not  always  so  easy  to  pull  them 
up  as  it  was  to  start  them. 

Just  as  Auntie  finished  speaking  the  door  opened  and  their 
uncle  came  in.  He  was  Auntie's  elder  brother — a  good  deal  older 
— and  very  kind  and  sensible.  At  once  all  thoughts  of  the 
dwarfs  or  what  Auntie  had  been  saying  danced  out  of  Rex's 


322  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

curly  head.  Like  a  true  boy  he  flew  off  to  his  uncle,  besieging 
him  with  questions  as  to  what  sort  of  a  carriage  they  were  to 
go  on  in — was  it  an  ox-cart;  oh,  mightn't  they  for  once  go  in  an 
ox-cart,  and  might  he — oh,  might  he  sit  beside  the  driver  in 
front? 

His  uncle  laughed  and  replied  to  his  questions,  but  Olive 
stayed  beside  the  sofa,  staring  gravely  at  her  aunt. 

"Auntie,"  she  said,  "you're  not  in  earnest,  are  you,  about 
there  being  really  a  country  of  dwarfs?" 

Olive  was  twelve.  Perhaps  you  will  think  her  very  silly  to 
have  imagined  for  a  moment  that  her  aunt's  joke  could  be  anything 
but  a  joke,  especially  as  she  had  been  so  sensible  about  not  letting 
Rex  get  anything  into  his  head  which  could  frighten  him.  But  I 
am  not  sure  that  she  was  so  very  silly  after  all.  She  had  read  in  her 
geography  about  the  Lapps  and  Finns,  the  tiny  little  men  of  the 
north,  whom  one  might  very  well  describe  as  dwarfs;  there  might 
be  dwarfs  in  these  strange  Thuringian  forests,  which  were  little 
spoken  of  in  geography  books;  Auntie  knew  more  of  such  things 
than  she  did,  for  she  had  travelled  in  this  country  before.  Then 
with  her  own  eyes  Olive  had  seen  a  dwarf,  and  though  she  had 
said  to  Rex  that  he  was  just  an  odd  dwarf  by  himself  as  it  were, 
not  one  of  a  race,  how  could  she  tell  but  what  he  might  be  one  of  a 
number  of  such  queer  little  people?  And  even  the  blue  dwarfs 
themselves — the  little  figures  in  the  china  manufactory — rather 
went  to  prove  it  than  not. 

"They  may  have  taken  the  idea  of  dwarfs  from  the  real  ones, 
as  Rex  said,"  thought  Olive.  "Anyway  I  shall  look  well  about  me 
if  we  go  through  any  of  these  forests  again.  They  must  live  in 
the  forests,  for  Auntie  said  they  eat  roast  fir-cones  for  dinner." 

All  these  thoughts  were  crowding  through  her  mind  as  she 
stared  up  into  Auntie's  face  and  asked  solemnly 

"Auntie,  were  you  in  earnest?" 

Auntie's  blue  eyes  sparkled. 

"In  earnest,  Olive?"  she  said.    "Of  course!    Why  shouldn't 


THE  BLUE  DWARFS  323 

I  be  in  earnest?  But  come,  quick,  we  must  get  our  things  together. 
Your  uncle  must  have  got  a  carriage." 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "I  have.  Not  an  ox-cart,  Rex.  I'm  sorry  for 
your  sake,  but  for  no  one  else's;  for  I  don't  think  there  would  be 
much  left  of  us  by  the  end  of  the  journey  if  we  were  to  be  jogged 
along  the  forest  roads  in  an  ox-cart.  No!  I  have  got  quite  a  re- 
spectable vehicle ;  but  we  must  stop  an  hour  or  two  on  the  way,  to 
rest  the  horses  and  give  them  a  feed,  otherwise  we  could  not  get 
through  to-night." 

"Where  shall  we  stop?"  said  Auntie,  as  with  the  bundles  of 
shawls  and  bags  they  followed  the  children's  uncle  to  the  door. 

"There  is  a  little  place  in  the  forest,  where  they  can  look  after 
the  horses,"  said  he;  "and  I  dare  say  we  can  get  some  coffee  there 
for  ourselves,  if  we  want  it.  It  is  a  pretty  little  nook.  I  remember 
it  long  ago,  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  it  again." 

Olive  had  pricked  up  her  ears.  "A  little  place  in  the  forest!" 
she  said  to  herself;  "that  may  be  near  where  the  dwarfs  live:  it  is 
most  likely  not  far  from  here,  because  of  the  one  we  saw."  She 
would  have  liked  to  ask  her  uncle  about  it,  but  something  in  the 
look  of  her  aunt's  eyes  kept  her  from  doing  so. 

"Perhaps  she  was  joking,"  thought  Olive  to  herself.  "But 
perhaps  she  doesn't  know ;  she  didn't  see  the  real  dwarf.  It  would 
be  rather  nice  if  I  did  find  them,  then  Auntie  couldn't  laugh  at  me 
any  more." 

They  were  soon  comfortably  settled  in  the  carriage,  and  set 
off.  The  first  part  of  the  drive  was  not  particularly  interesting; 
and  it  was  so  hot,  though  already  afternoon,  that  they  were  all — 
Olive  especially,  you  may  be  sure — delighted  to  exchange  the  open 
country  for  the  pleasant  shade  of  a  grand  pine  forest,  through 
which  their  road  now  lay. 

"Is  it  a  very  large  forest,  Uncle?"  said  Olive. 

"Yes,  very  large,"  he  replied  rather  sleepily,  to  tell  the  truth ; 
for  both  he  and  Auntie  had  been  nodding  a  Little,  and  Rex  had  once 


324  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

or  twice  been  fairly  asleep.  But  Olive's  imagination  was  far  too 
hard  at  work  to  let  her  sleep. 

"The  largest  in  Europe?"  she  went  on,  without  giving  much 
thought  to  poor  Uncle's  sleepiness. 

"Oh,  yes,  by  far,"  he  replied,  for  he  had  not  heard  clearly 
what  she  said,  and  fancied  it  was  "the  largest  hereabouts." 

"Dear  me!"  thought  Olive,  looking  round  her  Avith  awe  and 
satisfaction.    "If  there  are  dwarfs  anywhere,  then  it  must  be  here." 

And  she  was  just  beginning  another.  "And  please.  Uncle, 
is ?"  when  her  aunt  looked  up  and  said  lazily 

"Oh,  my  dear  child,  do  be  quiet!  Can't  you  go  to  sleep  your- 
self a  little?  We  shall  have  more  than  enough  of  the  forest  before 
we  are  out  of  it."  Which  offended  Olive  so  much  that  she  relapsed 
into  silence. 

Auntie  was  a  truer  prophet  than  she  knew ;  for  when  they  got 
to  the  little  hamlet  in  the  wood,  where  they  were  to  rest,  something 
proved  to  be  wrong  witJh  one  of  the  horse's  shoes ;  so  wrong,  indeed, 
that  after  a  prolonged  examination,  at  which  all  the  inhabitants 
turned  out  to  assist,  it  was  decided  that  the  horse  must  be  re-shod 
before  he  could  go  any  farther ;  and  this  made  it  impossible  for  the 
party  who  had  come  in  the  carriage  to  go  any  farther  either.  For 
the  nearest  smithy  was  two  miles  off;  the  horse  must  be  led  there 
and  back  by  the  driver,  which  would  take  at  least  two,  if  not  three, 
hours.  It  was  now  past  six,  and  they  had  come  barely  half  way. 
The  driver  shook  his  head,  and  said  he  would  not  like  to  on  to  the 
town  till  morning.  The  horse  had  pricked  his  foot ;  it  might  cause 
inflammation  to  drive  him  farther  without  a  rest,  and  the  carriage 
was  far  too  heavy  for  the  other  horse  alone,  which  had  suddenly 
struck  the  children's  uncle  as  a  brilliant  idea. 

"There  would  be  no  difficulty  about  the  harnessing,  anyway," 
he  said  to  Auntie,  laughing;  "for  all  the  vehicles  hereabouts  drawn 
by  one  horse  have  the  animal  at  one  side  of  a  pole,  instead  of 
between  shafts." 

But  Auntie  thought  it  better  to  give  in. 


THE  BLUE  DWARFS  325 

"It  really  doesn't  much  matter,"  she  said;  "we  can  stay  here 
vrell  enough.  There  are  two  bedrooms,  and  no  doubt  they  can  give 
us  something  to  eat;  beer  and  sausages  and  brown  bread  anyway." 

And  so  it  was  settled,  greatly  to  Olive's  satisfaction;  it  would 
give  her  capital  opportunities  for  a  dwarf  hunt !  Though  as  to  this 
she  kept  her  own  counsel. 

The  landlady  of  the  little  post-house  where  they  had  stopped 
was  accustomed  to  occasional  visits  of  this  kind  from  benighted  or 
distressed  travellers.  She  thought  nothing  of  turning  her  two 
daughters  out  of  their  bedroom,  which,  it  must  be  owned,  was  very 
clean,  for  Auntie  and  Olive,  and  a  second  room  on  the  ground-floor 
was  prepared  for  Rex  and  his  uncle.  She  had  coffee  ready  in  five 
minutes,  and  promised  them  a  comfortable  supper  before  bedtime. 
Altogether,  everything  seemed  very  satisfactory,  and  when  they 
felt  a  little  refreshed,  Auntie  proposed  a  walk — "a  good  long  walk," 
she  said,  "would  do  us  good.  And  the  landlady  says  we  get  out  of 
the  forest  up  there  behind  the  house,  where  the  ground  rises,  and 
that  there  is  a  lovely  view.  It  will  be  rather  a  climb,  but  it  isn't 
more  than  three-quarters  of  an  hour  from  here,  and  we  have  not 
walked  all  day." 

Uncle  thought  it  a  good  idea,  and  Rex  was  ready  to  start  at 
once;  but  Olive  looked  less  pleased. 

"Don't  you  want  to  come,  Olive?"  said  Auntie.  "Are  you 
tired?    You  didn't  take  a  nap  like  the  rest  of  us." 

"I  am  a  little  tired,"  said  Olive,  which  was  true  in  one  sense, 
though  not  in  another,  for  she  was  quite  fit  for  a  walk.  It  struck 
her  that  her  excuse  was  not  quite  an  honest  one,  so  she  added,  "If 
you  don't  mind,  I  would  rather  stay  about  here.  I  don't  mind  being 
alone,  and  I  have  my  book.    And  I  do  so  like  the  forest." 

"Very  well,"  said  her  uncle;  "only  don't  lose  yourself.  She  is 
perfectly  safe,"  he  added,  turning  to  her  aunt;  "there  are  neither 
wolves,  nor  bears,  nor  robbers  nowadays,  in  these  peaceful  forests." 

So  the  three  set  off,  leaving  Olive  to  her  own  devices.  She 
waited  till  they  were  out  of  sight,  then  she  made  her  preparations. 


326  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"I'd  better  take  my  purse,"  she  said  to  herself,  "in  case  I  meet 
the  dwarfs.  Auntie  told  me  to  be  very  polite,  and  perhaps  they 
would  like  some  of  these  tiny  pieces ;  they  just  look  as  if  they  were 
meant  for  them."  So  she  chose  a  few  copper  coins  and  one  or  two 
silver  pieces,  worth  about  twopence-halfpenny  each,  still  smaller. 
Then  she  put  in  her  pocket  half  a  slice  of  the  brown  bread  they  had 
had  with  their  coffee,  and  arming  herself,  more  for  appearance' 
sake  than  anything  else,  with  her  parasol  and  the  book  she  had 
with  her  in  her  travelling  bag,  she  set  off  on  her  solitary  ramble. 

It  was  still  hot — though  the  forest  trees  made  a  pleasant  shade. 
Olive  walked  some  way,  farther  and  farther,  as  far  as  she  could 
make  out,  into  the  heart  of  the  forest,  but  in  her  inexperience  she 
took  no  sort  of  care  to  notice  the  way  she  went,  or  to  make  for  her- 
self any  kind  of  landmarks.  She  just  wandered  on  and  on,  tempted 
first  by  some  mysterious  little  path,  and  then  by  another,  her  mind 
full  of  the  idea  of  the  discoveries  she  was  perhaps  about  to  make. 
Now  and  then  a  squirrel  darted  across  from  one  tree  to  another, 
disappearing  among  the  branches  almost  before  Olive  could  be 
sure  she  had  seen  it,  or  some  wild  wood  birds,  less  familiar  to  the 
little  foreigner,  would  startle  her  with  a  shrill,  strange  note.  There 
were  here  and  there  lovely  flowers  growing  among  the  moss,  and 
more  than  once  she  heard  the  sound  of  not  far  off  trickling  water. 
It  was  all  strangely  beautiful,  and  she  would  greatly  have  enjoyed 
and  admired  it  had  not  her  mind  been  so  full  of  the  queer,  fascinat- 
ing idea  of  the  blue  dwarfs. 

At  last — she  had  wandered  about  for  some  time — Olive  began 
to  feel  tired. 

"I  may  as  well  sit  down  a  little,"  she  thought;  "I  have  lots 
of  time  to  get  back.  This  seems  the  very  heart  of  the  forest.  They 
are  just  as  likely  to  be  seen  here  as  anywhere  else." 

So  Olive  ensconced  herself  in  a  comfortable  corner,  her  back 
against  the  root  of  a  tree,  which  seemed  hollowed  out  on  purpose  to 
serve  as  an  arm-chair.  She  thought  at  first  she  would  read  a  little, 
but  the  light  was  already  slightly  waning,  and  the  tree  shadows 


THE  BLUE  DWARFS  327 

made  it  still  fainter.  Besides,  Olive  had  plenty  to  think  of — she 
did  not  require  any  amusement.  Queer  little  noises  now  and  then 
made  themselves  heard— once  or  twice  it  really  sounded  as  if  small 
feet  were  pattering  along,  or  as  if  shrill  little  voices  were  laughing 
in  the  distance ;  and  with  each  sound,  Olive's  heart  beat  faster  with 
excitement — not  with  fear. 

"If  I  sit  very  still,"  she  thought,  "who  knows  what  I  may  see? 
Of  course,  it  would  be  much  nicer  and  prettier  if  the  dwarfs  were 
quite  tiny — not  like  the  little  man  we  saw  in  the  street  at  that 
place — I  forget  the  name — for  he  was  not  pretty  at  all — but  like 
the  blue  dwarfs  at  the  manufactory.  But  that,  I  suppose,  is  im- 
possible, for  they  would  be  really  like  fairies.  But  they  might  be 
something  between:  not  so  big  as  the  little  man,  and  yet  bigger 
than  the  blue  dwarfs." 

And  then  Olive  grew  a  little  confused  in  trying  to  settle  in  her 
mind  how  big,  or  how  small  rather,  it  was  possible  or  impossible  for 
a  nation  of  dwarfs  to  be.  She  thought  it  over  till  she  hardly  seemed 
sure  what  she  was  trying  to  decide.  She  kept  saying  to  herself, 
"Anyway,  they  could  not  but  be  a  good  deal  bigger  than  my  thumb ! 
What  does  that  mean?  Perhaps  it  means  more  in  dwarf  measures 
than  in  English,  perhaps " 

But  Avhat  was  that  that  suddenly  hit  her  on  the  nose?  Olive 
looked  up,  a  very  little  inclined  to  be  offended ;  it  is  not  a  pleasant 
thing  to  be  hit  on  the  nose;  could  it  be  Rex  come  behind  her  sud- 
denly, and  playing  her  a  trick?  Just  as  she  was  thinking  this,  a 
second  smart  tap  on  the  nose  startled  her  still  more,  and  this  time 
there  was  no  mistake  about  it ;  it  came  from  above,  and  it  was  a  fir- 
cone! Had  it  come  of  itself?  Somehow  the  words,  "Roast  fir-cones 
for  dinner,"  kept  running  in  her  head,  and  she  took  up  the  fir-cone 
in  her  fingers  to  examine  it,  but  quickly  dropped  it  again,  for  it 
was  as  hot  as  a  coal. 

"It  has  a  very  roasty  smell,"  thought  Olive;  "where  can  it 
have  come  from?" 


328  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

And  hardly  had  she  asked  herself  the  question,  when  a  sudden 
noise  all  round  her  made  her  again  look  up.  They  were  sliding 
down  the  branches  of  the  tree  in  all  directions.  At  first,  to  her 
dazzled  eyes,  they  seemed  a  whole  army,  but  as  they  touched  the 
ground  one  by  one,  and  she  was  able  to  distinguish  them  better,  she 
saw  that  after  all  there  were  not  so  very  many.  One,  two,  three, 
she  began  quickly  counting  to  herself,  not  aloud,  of  course — that 
would  not  have  been  polite — one,  two,  three,  up  to  twelve,  then  thir- 
teen, fourteen,  and  so  on  up  to — yes,  there  were  just  twenty-four 
of  them. 

"Two  of  each,"  said  Olive  to  herself;  "a  double  set  of  the  blue 
dwarfs." 

For  they  were  the  blue  dwarfs,  and  no  mistake !  Two  of  each, 
as  Olive  had  seen  at  once.  And  immediately  they  settled  them- 
selves in  twos — two  squatted  on  the  ground  embracing  their  knees, 
two  strode  across  a  barrel  which  they  had  somehow  or  other  brought 
with  them,  two  began  turning  head-over-heels,  two  knelt  down  with 
their  heads  and  queer  little  grinning  faces  looking  over  their  shoul- 
ders, twos  and  twos  of  them  in  every  funny  position  you  could 
imagine,  all  arranged  on  the  mossy  ground  in  front  of  where  Olive 
sat,  and  all  dressed  in  the  same  bright  blue  coats  as  the  toy  dwarfs 
at  the  china  manufactory. 

Olive  sat  still  and  looked  at  them.  Somehow  she  did  not  feel 
surprised. 

"How  big  are  they?"  she  said  to  herself.  "Bigger  than  my 
thumb?  Oh,  yes,  a  good  deal.  I  should  think  they  are  about  as 
tall  as  my  arm  would  be  if  it  was  standing  on  the  ground.  I 
should  think  they  would  come  up  above  my  knee.  I  should  like  to 
stand  up  and  measure,  but  perhaps  it  is  better  for  me  not  to 
speak  to  them  till  they  speak  to  me." 

She  had  not  long  to  wait.  In  another  moment  two  little  blue 
figures  separated  themselves  from  the  crowd,  and  made  their  way 
up  to  her.    But  when  they  were  close  to  her  feet  they  gave  a  sudden 


THE  BLUE  DWARFS  329 

jump  in  the  air,  and  came  down,  not  on  their  feet,  but  on  their 
heads !  And  then  again  some  of  her  aunt's  words  came  back  to  her, 
"If  they  should  ask  you  to  stand  on  your  head,  for  instance." 

"Dear  me,"  thought  Olive,  "how  did  Auntie  know  so  much 
about  them?  But  I  do  hope  they  won't  ask  me  to  stand  on  my 
head." 

Her  fears  were  somewhat  relieved  when  the  dwarfs  gave 
another  spring  and  came  down  this  time  in  a  respectable  manner  on 
their  feet.  Then,  with  a  good  many  bows  and  flourishes,  they  be- 
gan a  speech. 

"We  are  afraid,"  said  the  first. 

"That  the  fir-cones,"  said  the  second. 

"Were  rather  underdone,"  finished  up  the  first. 

Olive  really  did  not  know  what  to  say.  She  was  dreadfully 
afraid  that  it  would  seem  so  very  rude  of  her  not  even  to  have 
tasted  the  cones.  But  naturally  she  had  not  the  slightest  idea  that 
they  had  been  intended  for  her  to  eat. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said,  "Mr. ,  sir!  my  lord!    I  beg 

your  pardon.    I  don't  quite  know  what  I  should  call  you." 

"With  all  respect,"  said  the  first. 

"And  considering  the  circumstances,"  went  on  the  second. 

Then  just  as  Olive  supposed  they  were  going  to  tell  her  their 
names,  they  stopped  short  and  looked  at  her. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  began  again,  after  waiting  a  minute 
or  two  to  see  if  they  had  nothing  else  to  say;  "I  don't  quite  under- 
stand." 

"Nor  do  we,"  they  replied  promptly,  speaking  for  the  first 
time  both  together. 

"Do  you  mean  you  don't  know  what  my  name  is?"  said  she. 
"It's  Olive,  Olive!"  for  the  dwarfs  stood  staring  as  if  they  had  not 
heard  her.    "Olive!"  she  repeated  for  the  third  time. 

"Green?"  asked  the  first. 

"No!"  said  Olive.  "Of  course  not!  Green  is  a  very  common 
name — at  least " 


330  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"But  you  called  us  'blue,'  "  said  the  second;  and  it  really  was 
a  relief  to  hear  him  finish  a  sentence  comfortably  by  himself,  only 
Olive  felt  very  puzzled  by  what  he  said. 

"How  do  you  know?"  she  said.  "How  could  you  tell  I 
called  you  the  blue  dwarfs?"  and  then  another  thought  suddenly 
struck  her.  How  very  odd  it  was  that  the  dwarf  spoke  such  good 
English !    "I  thought  you  were  German,"  she  said. 

"How  very  amusing!"  said  the  dwarfs,  this  time  again  speak- 
ing together. 

Olive  could  not  see  that  it  was  very  amusing,  but  she  was 
afraid  of  saying  so,  for  fear  it  should  be  rude. 

"And  about  the  fir-cones,"  went  on  the  first  dwarf.  "It  is 
distressing  to  think  they  were  so  underdone.  But  we  have  come, 
all  of  us,"  waving  his  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  others,  "to 
invite  you  to  supper  in  our  village.  There  you  Avill  find  them  done 
to  perfection." 

Olive  felt  more  and  more  uncomfortable. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  she  said.  "I  should  like  to  come  very 
much,  if  it  isn't  too  far;  but  I  am  afraid  I  couldn't  eat  any  supper. 
Indeed,  I'm  not  hungry."  And  then  a  bright  thought  struck 
her.  "See  here,"  she  went  on,  drawing  the  half  slice  of  bread  out 
of  her  pocket,  "I  had  to  put  this  in  my  pocket,  for  I  couldn't  finish 
it  at  our  afternoon  coffee." 

The  two  dwarfs  came  close  and  examined  the  piece  of  bread 
with  the  greatest  attention.  They  pinched  and  smelt  it,  and  one 
of  them  put  out  his  queer  little  pointed  tongue  and  licked  it. 

"Not  good!"  he  said,  looking  up  at  Olive  and  rolling  about 
his  eyes  in  a  very  queer  way. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Olive;  "I  don't  think  it  can  be  bad. 
It  is  the  regular  bread  of  the  country.  I  should  have  thought 
you  would  be  accustomed  to  it,  as  you  live  here." 

The  two  dwarfs  took  no  notice  of  what  she  said,  but  suddenfy 
turned  round,  and  standing  with  their  backs  to  Olive  called  out 
shrilly,  "Good  day."     Immediately  all  the  other  dwarfs  replied 


THE  BLUE  DWARFS  331 

in  the  same  tone  and  the  same  words,  and  to  Olive's  great  surprise 
they  all  began  to  move  towards  her,  but  without  altering  their 
attitudes — those  on  the  barrel  rolled  towards  her  without  getting 
off  it;  the  two  who  were  hugging  their  knees  continued  to  hug 
them,  while  they  came  on  by  means  of  jerking  themselves;  the 
turning  head-over-heels  ones  span  along  like  wheels,  and  so  on  till 
the  whole  assemblage  were  at  her  feet.  Then  she  saw  unfolded 
before  her,  hanging  on  the  branches  of  the  tree,  a  large  mantle,  just 
the  shape  of  her  aunt's  travelling  dust-cloak,  which  she  always 
spread  over  Olive  in  a  carriage,  only,  instead  of  being  drab  or 
fawn-colored,  it  was,  like  the  dwarfs'  jackets,  bright  blue.  And 
without  any  one  telling  her,  Olive  seemed  to  know  of  herself  that 
she  was  to  put  it  on. 

She  got  up  and  reached  the  cloak  easily;  it  seemed  to  put 
itself  on,  and  Olive  felt  very  happy  and  triumphant  as  she  said  to 
herself,  "Now  I'm  really  going  to  have  some  adventures." 

The  dwarfs  marched — no!  one  cannot  call  it  marching,  for 
they  had  about  a  dozen  different  ways  of  proceeding — they  moved 
on,  and  Olive  in  the  middle,  her  blue  cloak  floating  majestically  on 
her  shoulders.  No  one  spoke  a  word.  It  grew  darker  and  darker 
among  the  trees,  but  Olive  did  not  feel  frightened.  On  they  went, 
till  at  last  she  saw  twinkling  before  them  a  very  small  but  bright 
blue  light.  It  looked  scarcely  larger  than  the  lamp  of  a  glow- 
worm, but  it  shone  out  very  distinct  in  the  darkness.  Immediately 
they  saw  it  the  dwarfs  set  up  a  shout,  and  as  it  died  away,  to 
Olive's  surprise,  they  began  to  sing.  And  what  do  you  think  they 
sang?  Olive  at  first  could  hardly  believe  her  ears  as  they  listened 
to  the  thoroughly  English  song  of  "Home,  Sweet  Home."  And 
the  queerest  thing  was  that  they  sang  it  very  prettily,  and  that  it 
sounded  exactly  like  her  aunt's  voice!  And  though  they  were 
walking  close  beside  her,  their  voices  when  they  left  off  singing 
did  not  so  much  seem  to  stop  as  to  move  off,  to  die  away  into 
the  distance,  which  struck  Olive  as  very  odd. 

They  had  now  arrived  at  the  trunk  of  a  large  tree,  half  way 


332  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

up  which  hung  the  little  lamp — at  least  Olive  supposed  it  must 
be  a  lamp — from  which  came  the  bright  blue  light. 

"Here  we  are,"  said  one  of  the  dwarfs,  she  did  not  see  which, 
"at  the  entrance  to  our  village."  And  thereupon  all  the  dwarfs 
began  climbing  up  the  tree,  swarming  about  it  like  a  hive  of 
bees,  till  they  got  some  way  up,  when  one  after  another  they 
suddenly  disappeared.  Olive  could  see  all  they  did  by  the  blue 
light.  She  was  beginning  to  wonder  if  she  would  be  left  standing 
there  alone,  when  a  shout  made  her  look  up,  and  she  saw  two  dwarfs 
standing  on  a  branch  holding  a  rope  ladder,  Whieh  they  had  just 
thrown  down,  and  making  signs  to  her  to  mount  up  by  it.  It 
was  quite  easy;  up  went  Olive,  step  by  step,  and  when  she  reached 
the  place  where  the  two  dwarfs  were  standing,  she  saw  how  it 
was  that  they  had  all  disappeared.  The  tree  trunk  was  hollow, 
and  there  were  steps  cut  in  it  like  a  stair,  down  which  the  dwarfs 
signed  to  her  that  she  was  to  go.  She  did  not  need  to  be  twice 
told,  so  eager  was  she  to  see  what  was  to  come.  The  stair  was 
rather  difficult  for  her  to  get  down  without  falling,  for  the  steps 
were  too  small,  being  intended  for  the  dwarfs,  but  Olive  managed 
pretty  well,  only  slipping  now  and  then.  The  stair  seemed  very 
long,  and  as  she  went  farther  it  grew  darker,  till  at  last  it  was 
quite  dark;  by  which  time,  fortunately,  however,  she  felt  herself 
again  on  level  ground,  and  after  waiting  half  a  minute  a  door 
seemed  to  open,  and  she  found  herself  standing  outside  the  tree 
stair,  with  the  prettiest  sight  before  her  eyes  that  she  had  ever 
seen  or  even  imagined. 

It  was  the  dwarf  village!  Rows  and  rows  of  tiny  houses 
— none  of  them  more  than  about  twice  as  high  as  Olive  herself, 
for  that  was  quite  big  enough  for  a  dwarf  cottage,  each  with  a 
sweet  little  garden  in  front,  like  what  one  sees  in  English  villages, 
though  the  houses  themselves  were  like  Swiss  chalets.  It  was  not 
dark  down  here,  there  was  a  soft  light  about  as  bright  as  we  have 
it  at  summer  twilight;  and  besides  this  each  little  house  had 
a  twinkling  blue  light  hanging  above  the  front  door,  like  a  sign- 


tjjBY     DUFFIELD     ft     COMPANY 

"They  were  .sliding  down  the  branches  of  the  tree  in  ;ill  directions." 


THE  BLUE  DWARFS  333 

post.  And  at  the  door  of  each  cottage  stood  one  of  the  dwarfs, 
with  a  little  dwarf  wife  beside  him;  only,  instead  of  blue,  each 
little  woman  was  dressed  in  brown,  so  that  they  were  rather  less 
showy  than  their  husbands.  They  all  began  bowing  as  Olive 
appeared,  and  all  the  little  women  curtseying,  and  Olive  seemed 
to  understand,  without  being  told,  that  she  was  to  walk  up  the 
village  street  to  see  all  there  was  to  be  seen.  So  on  she  marched, 
her  blue  cloak  floating  about  her,  so  that  sometimes  it  reached  the 
roofs  of  the  houses  on  each  side  at  the  same  time. 

Olive  felt  herself  rather  clumsy.  Her  feet,  which  in  general 
she  was  accustomed  to  consider  rather  neat,  and  by  no  means  too 
large  for  her  age,  seemed  such  great  awkward  things.  If  she  had 
put  one  of  them  in  at  the  window  of  a  dwarf  house,  it  would 
have  knocked  everything  out  of  its  place. 

"Dear  me!"  thought  Olive,  "I  had  no  idea  I  could  seem 
clumsy!  I  feel  like  a  great  ploughman.  I  wish  I  were  not 
so  big." 

"Yes,"  said  a  voice  beside  her,  "it  has  its  disadvantages"; 
and  Olive,  looking  down  to  see  who  spoke — she  had  to  look  down 
for  everything — caught  sight  of  one  of  the  two  dwarfs  with  whom 
she  had  first  spoken.  She  felt  a  little  ruffled.  She  did  not  like 
this  trick  of  the  dwarf  hearing  what  she  thought  before  she  said  it. 

"Everything  has  its  disadvantages,"  she  replied.  "Don't  you 
find  yourself  very  inconveniently  small  when  you  are  up  in  our 
world?" 

"Exactly  so,"  said  the  dwarf;  but  he  did  not  seem  the  least 
put  out. 

"They  are  certainly  very  good-tempered,"  said  Olive  to  her- 
self.    Then  suddenly  a  thought  struck  her. 

"Your  village  is  very  neat  and  pretty,"  she  said;  "though, 
perhaps — I  don't  mean  to  be  rude,  not  on  any  account " 

"No,"  interrupted  the  dwarf;  "Auntie  told  you  on  no  ac- 
count to  be  rude." 


334  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLES  WORTH 

"Auntie!"  repeated  Olive,  in  astonishment;  "she  is  not  your 
auntie!" 

"On  no  account,"  said  the  dwarf,  in  the  same  calm  tone,  but 
without  seeming  to  take  in  that  Olive  meant  to  reprove  him. 

"It's  no  use  trying  to  make  them  understand,"  said  Olive 
to  herself. 

"Not  the  least,"  said  the  dwarf;  at  which  Olive  felt  so  pro- 
voked that  she  could  have  stamped  her  feet  with  irritation.  But 
as  thinking  crossly  seemed  in  this  country  to  be  quite  as  bad  as 
speaking  crossly,  she  had  to  try  to  swallow  down  her  vexation  as 
well  as  she  could! 

"I  was  going  to  say,"  she  went  on  quietly,  "that  to  my  taste 
the  village  would  be  prettier  if  there  was  a  little  variety.  Not 
all  the  houses  just  the  same,  you  know.  And  all  of  you  are  so 
like  each  other,  and  all  your  little  brown  wives  too.  Are  there  no 
children  dwarfs?" 

"Doubtless.     Any  quantity,"  was  the  answer. 

"Then  where  are  they  all?"  said  Olive.  "Are  they  all 
asleep?"  She  put  the  last  question  rather  sarcastically,  but  the 
sarcasm  seemed  to  be  lost  on  the  little  man. 

"Yes,  all  asleep,"  he  replied;  "all  asleep,  and  dream- 
ing. Children  are  very  fond  of  dreaming,"  he  went  on,  looking 
up  at  Olive  with  such  a  queer  expression,  and  such  a  queer  tone 
in  his  voice,  too,  that  Olive  got  a  queer  feeling  herself,  as  if  he 
meant  more  than  his  words  actually  said.  Could  he  mean  to 
hint  that  she  was  dreaming?  But  a  remark  from  the  dwarf  dis- 
tracted her  thoughts. 

"Supper  is  ready,"  he  said.  "They  are  all  waiting."  And 
turning  round,  Olive  saw  before  her  a  cottage  a  good  deal  larger 
than  the  others;  in  fact,  it  was  almost  high  enough  for  her,  with 
considerable  stooping,  to  get  in  at  the  door.  And  through  the 
windows  she  saw  a  long  table  neatly  covered  with  a  bright  blue 
table-cloth,  and  spread  with  numbers  of  tiny  plates,  and  beside 
each  plate  a  knife  and  fork  and  a  little  blue  glass  cup.    Two  great 


THE  BLUE  DWARFS  335 

dishes  stood  on  the  table,  one  at  each  end.  Steam  was  rising  from 
each,  and  a  delicious  smell  came  out  through  the  open  windows. 

"I  did  not  know  I  was  so  hungry,"  thought  Olive;  "but  I  do 
hope  it  isn't  fir-cones." 

"Yes,"  said  the  dwarf;  "they'll  be  better  done  this  time." 

Then  he  gave  a  sort  of  sharp,  sudden  cry  or  whistle,  and  im- 
mediately all  the  dwarfs  of  the  village  appeared  as  if  by  magic, 
and  began  hurrying  into  the  house,  but  as  soon  as  they  were  in 
the  middle  of  the  passage  they  fell  back  at  each  side,  leaving  a 
clear  space  in  the  middle. 

"For  you,"  said  the  first  dwarf,  bowing  politely. 

"Do  you  always  have  supper  here  all  together  like  that?  said 
Olive.    "How  funny!" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  dwarf;  "it's  a  table  d'hote.  Be  so  good 
as  to  take  your  place." 

Olive  bent  her  head  cautiously  in  preparation  for  passing 
through  the  door,  when  again  the  same  sharp  cry  startled  her, 
and  lifting  her  head  suddenly  she  bumped  it  against  the  lintel. 
The  pain  of  the  blow  was  rather  severe. 

"What  did  you  do  that  for?"  she  exclaimed  angrily.  "Why 
did  you  scream  out  like  that?  I — — "  but  she  said  no  more.  The 
cry  was  repeated,  and  this  time  it  did  its  Avork  effectually,  for 
Olive  awoke.  Awoke — was  it  waking? — to  find  herself  all  in  the 
dark,  stiff  and  cold,  and  her  head  aching  with  the  bump  she  had 
given  it  against  the  old  tree-trunk,  \Vhile  farther  off  now  she  heard 
the  same  shrill  hoot  or  cry  of  some  early  astir  night-bird,  which 
had  sounded  before  in  her  dreams. 

"Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear!"  she  sobbed,  "what  shall  I  do?  Where 
am  I?  How  can  I  ever  find  my  way  in  the  dark?  I  believe  it 
was  all  a  trick  of  those  nasty  blue  dwarfs.  I  don't  believe  I  was 
dreaming.  They  must  be  spiteful  goblins.  I  wish  I  had  not  gone 
with  them  to  see  their  village."  And  so  for  some  minutes,  half 
asleep  and  half  awake,  Olive  stayed  crouching  by  the  tree,  which 
seemed  her  only  protector.     But  by  degrees,  as  her  senses — her 


336  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

common  sense  particularly — came  back  to  her,  she  began  to  realise 
that  it  was  worse  than  useless  to  sit  there  crying.  Dark  as  it  was, 
she  must  try  to  find  her  way  back  to  the  little  inn,  where,  doubt- 
less, Auntie  and  the  others  were  in  the  greatest  distress  about  her, 
the  thought  of  which  nearly  made  her  burst  out  crying  again;  and 
poor  Olive  stumbled  up  to  her  feet  as  best  she  could,  fortunately 
not  forgetting  to  feel  for  her  book  and  parasol  which  were  lying 
beside  her,  and  slowly  and  tremblingly  made  her  way  on  a  few 
steps,  hoping  that  perhaps  if  she  could  manage  to  get  out  of  the 
shadow  of  the  trees  it  might  not  be  quite  so  dark  farther  on.  She 
was  not  altogether  disappointed.  It  certainly  grew  a  very  little 
less  black,  but  that  it  was  a  very  dark  night  there  was  no  denying. 
And,  indeed,  though  it  had  not  been  dark,  she  would  have  had 
the  greatest  difficulty  in  finding  her  way  out  of  the  wood,  into 
which  she  had  so  thoughtlessly  penetrated.  Terrifying  thoughts, 
too,  began  to  crowd  into  her  mind,  though,  as  I  think  I  have  shown 
you,  she  was  not  at  all  a  timid  child.  But  a  forest  on  a  dark 
night,  and  so  far  away  from  everywhere — it  was  enough  to  shake 
her  nerves.  She  hoped  and  trusted  there  was  no  fear  of  wolves 
in  summer-time;  but  bears! — ah!  as  to  bears  there  was  no  telling. 
Even  the  hooting  cries  of  the  birds  which  she  now  and  then  again 
heard  in  the  distance  frightened  her,  and  she  felt  that  a  bat  flap- 
ping against  her  would  send  her  nearly  out  of  her  mind.  And 
after  a  while  she  began  to  lose  heart — it  was  not  quite  so  dark, 
but  she  had  not  the  very  least  idea  where  she  was  going.  She 
kept  bumping  and  knocking  herself  against  the  trunks;  she  was 
evidently  not  in  a  path,  but  wandering  farther  and  farther  among 
the  forest  trees.  That  was  about  all  she  could  feel  sure  of,  and 
after  two  or  three  more  vain  efforts  Olive  fairly  gave  up,  and, 
sinking  down  on  the  ground,  again  burst  into  tears. 

"If  I  but  had  a  mariner's  compass,"  she  thought,  her  fancy 
wandering  off  to  all  the  stories  of  lost  people  she  had  ever  heard 
of.  Then  she  further  reflected  that  a  compass  would  do  her  very 
little  good  if  it  was  too  dark  to  see  it,  and  still  more  as  she  had 


THE  BLUE  DWARFS  337 

not  the  slightest  idea  whether  her  road  lay  north,  south,  east  or 
west.  "If  the  stars  were  out!"  was  her  next  idea;  but  then,  I  am 
ashamed  to  say,  Olive's  ideas  of  astronomy  were  limited.  She 
could  perhaps  have  recognized  the  Plough  and  the  Pole  star,  but 
she  could  not  remember  which  way  they  pointed.  Besides,  she 
did  not  feel  quite  sure  that  in  Thuringen  one  would  see  the  same 
stars  as  in  England  or  Paris ;  and  after  all,  as  there  were  none  visi- 
ble, it  was  no  good  puzzling  about  it,  only  if  they  had  been  there  it 
would  not  have  seemed  so  lonely.  Suddenly — what  was  that  in  the 
distance?  A  light,  a  tiny  light,  bobbing  in  and  out  of  sight  among 
the  trees?  Could  it  be  a  star  come  out  of  its  way  to  take  pity 
on  her?  Much  more  likely  a  Will-o'-the-wisp;  for  she  did  not 
stop  to  reflect  that  a  dry  pine  forest  in  summer-time  is  not  one  of 
Will-o'-the-wisp's  favourite  playgrounds.  It  was  a  light,  as  to  that 
there  was  no  doubt,  and  it  was  coming  nearer.  Whether  she  was 
more  frightened  or  glad  Olive  scarcely  knew.  Still,  almost  any- 
thing was  better  than  to  sit  there  to  be  eaten  up  by  bears,  or  to  die 
of  starvation;  and  she  eagerly  watched  the  light  now  steadily  ap- 
proaching her,  till  it  came  near  enough  for  her  to  see  that  it  was  a 
lantern  carried  by  some  person  not  high  above  the  ground.  A  boy 
perhaps;  could  it  be — oh,  joyful  thought! — could  it  be  Rex?  But 
no;  even  if  they  were  all  looking  for  her  it  was  not  likely  that 
they  would  let  Rex  be  running  about  alone  to  get  lost,  too.  Still 
it  must  be  a  boy,  and  without  waiting  to  think  more  Olive  called 
out 

"Oh,  please  come  and  help  me!  I'm  lost  in  the  wood!"  she 
cried,  thinking  nothing  of  German  or  anything  but  her  sore 
distress. 

The  lantern  moved  about  undecidedly  for  a  moment  or  two, 
then  the  light  flashed  towards  her  and  came  still  nearer. 

"Acli,  Gott!"  exclaimed  an  unfamiliar  voice,  and  Olive,  peering 
forward,  thought  for  half  a  second  she  was  again  dreaming.  He 
was  not,  certainly,  dressed  in  blue,  and  he  was  a  good  deal  taller 
than  up  to  her  knee ;  but  still  he  was — there  was  no  doubt  about  it 


338  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

— he  was  a  dwarf!  And  another  gaze  at  his  queer  little  figure  and 
bright  sparkling  eyes  told  Olive  that  it  was  the  very  same  little 
man  who  had  smiled  at  Rex  and  her  when  he  saAv  them  leaning  out 
of  the  inn  window  that  very  afternoon. 

She  didn't  feel  frightened;  he  looked  so  good-natured  and  so 
sorry  for  her.  And  somehow  Olive's  faith  in  the  possible  existence 
of  a  nation  of  dwarfs  had  received  a  shock ;  she  was  much  more  in- 
clined to  take  things  prosaically.  But  it  was  very  difficult  to  explain 
matters.  I  think  the  dwarf  at  the  first  moment  was  more  inclined 
to  take  her  for  something  supernatural  than  she  was  now  to 
imagine  him  a  brownie  or  a  gnome.  For  she  was  a  pretty  little 
girl,  with  a  mass  of  golden  fair  hair  and  English  blue  eyes;  and 
with  her  hat  half  fallen  off,  and  her  cheeks  flushed,  she  might  have 
sat  for  a  picture  of  a  fairy  who  had  strayed  from  her  home. 

Her  German  seemed  all  to  go  out  of  her  head.  But  she 
managed  to  remember  the  name  of  the  village  where  they  had  been 
that  afternoon,  and  a  sudden  recollection  seemed  to  come  over  the 
dwarf.  He  poured  out  a  flood  of  words  and  exclamations,  amidst 
which  all  that  Olive  could  understand  was  the  name  of  the  village 
and  words  which  she  knew  meant  "lost"  and  "poor  child."  Then 
he  went  on  to  tell  that  he  too  was  on  his  way  from  the  same  village 
to  somewhere;  that  he  came  by  the  woods,  because  it  was  shorter, 
and  lifting  high  his  lantern,  gave  Olive  to  understand  that  he  could 
now  show  her  the  way. 

So  off  she  set  under  his  guidance,  and,  only  fancy,  a  walk 
of  not  more  than  ten  minutes  brought  them  to  the  little  inn! 
Olive's  wanderings  and  straying  had,  after  all,  drawn  her  very  near 
her  friends  if  she  had  known  it.  Poor  Auntie  and  Rex  were  run- 
ning about  in  front  of  the  house  in  great  distress.  Uncle  and  the 
landlord  and  the  coachman  had  set  off  with  lanterns,  and  the  land- 
lady was  trying  to  persuade  Auntie  that  there  was  not  really  any- 
thing to  be  afraid  of;  neither  bears,  nor  wolves,  nor  evilly-disposed 
people  about:  the  little  young  lady  had,  doubtless,  fallen  asleep  in 
the  wood  with  the  heat  and  fatigue  of  the  day ;  which,  as  you  know, 


THE  BLUE  DWARFS  339 

was  a  very  good  guess,  though  the  landlady  little  imagined  what 
queer  places  and  people  Olive  had  been  visiting  in  her  sleep. 

The  dwarf  was  a  well-known  person  thereabouts,  and  a  very 
harmless,  kindly  little  man.  A  present  of  a  couple  of  marks  sent 
him  off  to  his  cottage  nearby  very  happy  indeed,  and  when  Uncle 
returned  a  few  minutes  later  to  see  if  the  wanderer  had  been  heard 
of,  you  can  imagine  how  thankful  he  was  to  find  her.  It  was  not  so 
very  late  after  all,  not  above  half-past  ten  o'clock,  but  a  thunder- 
storm which  came  on  not  long  after  explained  the  unusual  dark- 
ness of  the  cloud-covered  sky. 

"What  a  good  thing  you  were  safe  before  the  storm  came  on!" 
said  Auntie,  with  a  shudder  at  the  thought  of  the  dangers  her 
darling  had  escaped.  "I  will  take  care  never  again  to  carry  my 
jokes  too  far,"  she  resolved,  when  Olive  had  confided  to  her  the  real 
motive  of  her  wanderings  in  the  wood.  And  Olive,  for  her  part, 
decided  that  she  would  be  content  with  fairies  and  dwarfs  in  books 
and  fancy,  without  trying  to  find  them  in  reality. 

"Though  all  the  same,"  she  said  to  herself,  "I  should  have 
liked  to  taste  the  roast  fir-cones.  They  did  smell  so  good!"  "And, 
Auntie,"  she  said  aloud,  "were  you  singing  in  the  wood  on  your 
way  home  with  Uncle  and  Rex?" 

"Yes,"  said  Auntie,  "they  begged  me  to  sing  'Home,  Sweet 
Home.'    Why  do  you  ask  me?" 

Olive  explained.  "So  it  was  your  voice  I  heard  when  I 
thought  it  was  the  dwarfs,"  she  said,  smiling. 

And  Auntie  gave  her  still  another  kiss. 


GOOD-NIGHT,  WINNY 

"Say  not  good-night — but,  in  some  brighter  clime, 
Bid  me  good-morning!" 

When  I  was  a  little  girl  I  was  called  Meg.  I  do  not  mean 
to  say  that  I  have  got  a  different  name  now  that  I  am  big, 
but  my  name  is  used  differently.  I  am  now  called  Margaret, 
or  sometimes  Madge,  but  never  Meg.  Indeed  I  do  not  wish 
ever  to  be  called  Meg,  for  a  reason  you  will  quite  understand 
when  you  have  heard  my  story.  But  perhaps  I  am  wrong 
to  call  it  a  "story"  at  all,  so  I  had  better  say  at  the  begin- 
ning that  what  I  have  to  tell  you  is  only  a  sort  of  remembrance  of 
something  that  happened  to  me  when  I  was  very  little — of  some 
one  I  loved  more  dearly,  I  think,  than  I  can  ever  love  any  one 
again.    And  I  fancy  perhaps  other  little  girls  will  like  to  hear  it. 

Well  then,  to  begin  again — long  ago  I  used  to  be  called 
Meg,  and  the  person  who  first  called  me  so  was  my  sister 
Winny,  who  was  not  quite  two  years  older  than  I.  There 
were  four  of  us  then — four  little  sisters — Winny,  and  I,  and 
Dolly,  and  Blanche,  baby  Blanche  we  used  to  call  her.  We 
lived  in  the  country  in  a  pretty  house,  which  we  were  very 
fond  of,  particularly  in  the  summer  time,  when  the  flowers  were 
all  out.  Winny  loved  flowers  more  dearly  than  any  one  I 
ever  knew,  and  she  taught  me  to  love  them  too.  I  never 
see  one  now  without  thinking  of  her  and  the  things  she  used 
to  say  about  them.  I  can  see  now,  now  that  I  am  so  much 
older,  that  Winny  must  have  been  a  very  clever  little  girl  in 
some  ways,  not  so  much  in  learning  lessons  as  in  thinking  things 
to  herself,  and  understanding  feelings  and  thoughts  that  children 
do  not  generally  care  about  at  all.  She  was  very  pretty  too,  I 
can  remember  her  face  so  well.  She  had  blue  eyes  and  very 
long  black  eyelashes — our  mamma  used  to  tease  her  sometimes, 
and  say  that  she  had  what  Irish  people  call  "blue  eyes  put  in 
with  dirty  fingers" — and  pretty  rosy  cheeks,  and  a  very  white 

340 


GOOD-NIGHT  WINNY  341 

forehead.  And  her  face  always  had  a  bright  dancing  look  that 
I  can  remember  best  of  all. 

We  learnt  lessons  together,  and  we  slept  together  in  two 
little  beds  side  by  side,  and  we  did  everything  together,  from 
eating  our  breakfast  to  dressing  our  dolls — and  when  one  was 
away  the  other  seemed  only  half  alive.  All  our  frocks  and 
hats  and  jackets  were  exactly  the  same,  and  except  that  Winny 
was  taller  than  I,  we  should  never  have  known  which  was 
which  of  our  things.  I  am  sure  Winny  was  a  very  good  little 
girl,  but  when  I  try  to  remember  all  about  her  exactly,  what 
seems  to  come  back  most  to  me  is  her  being  always  so  happy. 
She  did  not  need  to  think  much  about  being  good  and  not 
naughty;  everything  seemed  to  come  rightly  to  her  of  itself. 
She  thought  the  world  was  a  very  pretty,  nice  place;  and  she 
loved  all  her  friends,  and  she  loved  God  most  of  all  for  giving 
them  to  her.  She  used  to  say  she  was  sure  Heaven  would  be 
a  very  happy  place  too,  only  she  did  so  hope  there  would  be 
plenty  of  flowers  there,  and  she  was  disappointed  because 
mamma  said  it  did  not  tell  in  the  Bible  what  kinds  of  flowers 
there  would  be.  Almost  the  only  thing  which  made  her  unhappy 
was  about  there  being  so  many  very  poor  people  in  the  world. 
She  used  to  talk  about  it  very  often  and  wonder  why  it  was, 
and  when  she  was  very,  very  little,  she  cried  because  nurse 
would  not  let  her  give  away  her  best  velvet  jacket  to  a  poor 
little  girl  she  saw  on  the  road. 

But  though  Winny  was  so  sweet,  and  though  we  loved 
each  other  so,  sometimes  we  did  quarrel.  Now  and  then  it 
was  quite  little  quarrels  which  were  over  directly,  but  once  we 
had  a  bigger  quarrel.  Even  now  I  do  not  like  to  remember 
it;  and  oh!  how  I  do  wish  I  could  make  other  boys  and  girls  feel 
as  I  do  about  quarrelling.  Even  little  tiny  squabbles  seem  to 
me  to  be  sorrowful  things,  and  then  they  so  often  grow  into 
bigger  ones.  It  was  generally  mostly  my  fault.  I  was  peevish 
and  cross   sometimes,   and  Winny  was  never  worse  than  just 


342  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLES  WORTH 

hasty  and  quick  for  a  moment.  She  was  always  ready  to  make 
friends  again,  "to  kiss  ourselves  to  make  the  quarrel  go  away," 
as  our  little  sister  Dolly  used  to  say,  almost  hefore  she  could 
speak.  And  sometimes  I  was  silly,  and  then  it  was  right  for 
Winny  to  find  fault  with  me.  My  manners  used  occasionally 
to  trouble  her,  for  she  was  very  particular  about  such  things. 
One  day  I  remember  she  was  very  vexed  with  me  for  something 
I  said  to  a  gentleman  who  was  dining  with  our  papa  and 
mamma.  He  was  a  nice  kind  gentleman,  and  we  liked  him, 
only  we  did  not  think  him  pretty.  Winny  and  I  had  fixed 
together  that  we  did  not  think  him  pretty,  only  of  course  Winny 
never  thought  I  would  be  so  silly  as  to  tell  him  so.  We  came 
down  to  dessert  that  evening — Winny  sat  beside  papa,  and  I  sat 
between  Mr.  Merton  and  mamma,  and  after  I  had  sat  quite 
still,  looking  at  him  without  speaking,  I  suddenly  said,— I  can't 
think  what  made  me— "Mr.  Merton,  I  don't  think  you  are  at  all 
pretty.  Your  hair  goes  straight  down,  and  up  again  all  of  a 
sudden  at  the  end,  just  like  our  old  drake's  tail." 

Mr.  Merton  laughed  very  much,  and  papa  laughed,  and 
mamma  did  too,  though  not  so  much.  But  Winny  did  not 
laugh  at  all.  Her  face  got  red,  and  she  would  not  eat  her 
raisins,  but  asked  if  she  might  keep  them  for  Dolly,  and  she 
seemed  quite  unhappy.  And  when  we  had  said  good-night, 
and  had  gone  upstairs,  I  could  see  how  vexed  she  was.  She 
was  so  vexed  that  she  even  gave  me  a  little  shake.  "Meg," 
she  said,  "I  am  so  ashamed  of  you.  I  am  really.  How  could 
you  be  so  rude?" 

I  began  to  cry,  and  I  said  I  did  not  mean  to  be  rude; 
and  I  promised  that  I  would  never  say  things  like  that  again; 
and  then  Winny  forgave  me;  but  I  never  forgot  it.  And  once 
I  remember,  too,  that  she  was  vexed  with  me  because  I  would 
not  speak  to  a  little  girl  >vho  came  to  pay  a  visit  to  her  grand' 
father,  who  lived  at  our  grandfather's  lodge.  Winny  stopped 
to  say  good-morning  to  her,  and  to  ask  her  if  her  friends  at 


GOOD-NIGHT  WINNY  343 

home  were  quite  well;  and  the  little  girl  curtseyed  and  looked 
so  pleased.  But  I  walked  on,  and  when  Winny  called  to  me  to 
stop  I  would  not;  and  then,  when  she  asked  me  what  was  the 
matter,  I  said  I  did  not  think  we  needed  to  speak  to  the  little 
girl,  she  was  quite  a  common  child,  and  we  were  ladies.  Winny 
■was  vexed  with  me  then;  she  was  too  vexed  to  give  me  a  little 
shake  even.  She  did  not  speak  for  a  minute,  and  then  she  said, 
very  sadly,  "Meg,  I  am  sorry  you  don't  know  better  than 
that  what   being   a   lady   means." 

I  do  know  better  now,  I  hope;  but  was  it  not  strange 
that  Winny  always  seemed  to  know  better  about  these  things? 
It  came  of  itself  to  her,  I  think,  because  her  heart  was  so  kind 
and    happy. 

Winny  was  very  fond  of  listening  to  stories,  and  of  making 
them  up  and  telling  them  to  me;  but  she  was  not  very  fond  of 
reading  to  herself.  She  liked  writing  best,  and  I  liked  reading. 
We  used  to  say  that  when  we  were  big  girls,  Winny  should 
write  all  mamma's  letters  for  her,  and  I  should  read  aloud  to 
her  when  she  was  tired.  How  little  we  thought  that  time  would 
never  come!  We  were  always  talking  about  what  we  should 
do  when  we  were  big;  but  sometimes  when  we  had  been  talking 
a  long  time,  Winny  would  stop  suddenly,  and  say,  "Meg, 
growing  big  seems  a  dreadfully  long  way  off.  It  almost  tires 
me  to  think  of  it.  What  a  great,  great  deal  we  shall  have  to 
learn  before  then,  Meg!"     I  wonder  what  gave  her  that  feeling. 

Shall  I  tell  you  now  about  the  worst  quarrel  we  ever 
had?  It  was  about  Winny's  best  doll.  The  doll's  name  was 
"Poupee."  Of  course  I  know  now  that  that  is  the  French 
for  all  dolls;  but  we  were  so  little  then  we  did  not  understand, 
and  when  our  aunt's  French  maid  told  us  that  "poupee"  was 
the  word  for  doll,  we  thought  it  a  very  pretty  name,  and 
somehow  the  doll  was  always  called  by  it.  Grandfather  had 
given  Poupee  to  Winny — I  think  he  brought  it  from  Lon- 
don for  her — and  I  cannot  tell  you  how  proud  she  was  of  it. 


344  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

She  did  not  play  with  it  every  day,  only  on  holidays  and 
treat-days;  but  every  day  she  used  to  peep  at  Poupee  in  the 
drawer  where  she  lay,  and  kiss  her,  and  say  how  pretty  she 
looked.  One  afternoon  Winny  was  going  out  somewhere — I 
don't  remember  exactly  where;  I  dare  say  it  was  a  drive  Avith 
mamma — and  I  was  not  to  go,  and  I  was  crying;  and  just  as 
Winny  was  running  downstairs  all  ready  dressed  to  go,  she  came 
back  and  whispered  to  me,  "Meg,  dear,  don't  cry.  It  takes 
away  all  my  pleasure  to  see  you.  Will  you  leave  off  crying  and 
look  happy  if  I  let  you  have  Poupee  to  play  with  while  I  am  out?" 

I  wiped  away  my  tears  in  a  minute,  I  was  so  pleased. 
Winny  ran  to  Poupee's  drawer  and  got  her  out,  and  brought 
her  to  me.  She  kissed  her  as  she  put  her  into  my  arms,  and 
said  to  her,  "My  darling  Poupee  you  are  going  to  spend  the 
afternoon  with  your  aunt.  You  must  be  a  very  good  little 
girl,  and  do  exactly  what  she  tells  you." 

And  then  Winny  said  to  me,  "You  will  be  very  careful 
of  her,  won't  you,  Meg?"  and  I  promised,  of  course,  that 
I  would. 

I  did  mean  to  be  careful,  and  I  really  was;  but  for  all 
that  a  sad  accident  happened.  I  had  been  very  happy  with 
Poupee  all  the  afternoon,  and  I  had  made  her  a  new  apron 
with  a  piece  of  muslin  nurse  gave  me,  and  some  ribbon,  which 
did  nicely  for  bows;  and  I  was  carrying  her  along  the  passage 
to  show  nurse  how  pretty  the  apron  looked  when  the  house- 
maid, who  was  coming  along  with  a  trayful  of  clean  clothes  from 
the  wash  in  her  arms,  knocked  against  me,  and  Poupee  was 
thrown  down;  and,  terrible  to  tell,  her  dear,  sweet  little  right 
foot  was  broken.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  sorry  I  was,  and 
nurse  was  sorry  too,  and  so  was  Jane;  but  all  the  sorrow  would 
not  mend  the  foot.  I  was  sitting  on  the  nursery  floor,  with 
Poupee  in  my  lap,  crying  over  her,  as  miserable  as  could  be, 
when  Winny  rushed  in,  laden  with  parcels,  in  the  highest 
spirits. 


GOOD-NIGHT  WINNY  345 

"O!  I  have  had  such  a  nice  drive,  and  I  have  brought 
some  buns  and  sponge-cakes  for  tea,  and  a  toy  donkey  for 
Blanche.  And  has  Poupee  been  good?"  she  exclaimed.  But 
just  then  she  caught  sight  of  my  face.  "What  is  the  matter, 
Meg?     What  have  you  done  to  my  darling,  beautiful  Poupee? 

0  Meg,  Meg,  you  surely  haven't  broken  her?" 

I   was   crying   so   I   could   hardly    speak. 

"O  Winny!"  I  said,  "I  am  so  sorry." 

But  Winny  was  too  vexed  to  care  just  at  first  for  anything 

1  could    say.      "You    naughty,    naughty,    unkind    Meg,"    she 
raid,  "I  do  believe  you  did  it  on  purpose." 

I  could  not  bear  to  hear  that.  I  thought  it  very  hard 
indeed  that  she  should  say  so,  when  any  one  could  see  hoAv 
miserable  I  was.  I  did  not  answer  her;  I  ran  out  of  the 
nursery,  and  though  Winny  called  to  me  to  come  back  (for 
the  moment  she  had  said  those  words  she  was  sorry  for  them), 
I  would  not  listen  to  her.  Nurse  fetched  me  back  soon,  how- 
ever, for  it  was  tea-time,  but  I  would  not  speak  to  Winny. 
We  never  had  such  a  miserable  tea;  there  we  sat,  two  red-eyed, 
unhappy  little  girls,  looking  as  if  we  did  not  love  each  other 
a  bit.  If  mamma  had  come  up  to  the  nursery  she  would  have 
put  it  all  right — she  did  put  Poupee's  foot  right  the  very  next 
day,  she  mended  it  so  nicely  with  diamond  cement,  that  the 
place  hardly  showed  at  all — but  she  was  busy  that  evening,  and 
did  not  happen  to  come  up.  So  bed-time  came,  and  still  we 
had  not  made  friends,  though  I  heard  Winny  crying  when 
she  was  saying  her  prayers.  After  we  were  in  bed,  and  nurse 
had  gone  away,  Winny  whispered  to  me,  "Meg,  won't  you 
forgive  me  for  saying  that  unkind  thing?  Won't  you  kiss  me 
and  say  good-night,  Winny?" 

A  minute  before,  I  had  been  feeling  as  sorry  as  could 
be,  but  when  Winny  spoke  to  me,  a  most  hard,  horrid,  unkind 
feeling  seemed  to  come  back  into  mv  heart,  and  I  would  not 
answer.    I  breathed  as  if  I  were  asleep,  pretending  not  to  hear. 


346  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

I  think  Winny  thought  I  was  asleep,  for  she  did  not  speak 
again.  I  heard  her  crying  softly,  and  then  after  a  while  I  heard 
by  her  breathing  that  she  had  really  gone  to  sleep.  But  I 
couldn't.  I  lay  awake  for  a  long  time,  I  thought  it  was  hours 
and  hours,  and  I  tossed  and  turned,  but  I  couldn't  go  to  sleep. 
I  listened  but  I  could  not  hear  Winny  breathing — I  put  my 
hand  out  of  my  cot,  and  stretched  across  to  hers  to  feel  for 
her;  she  seemed  to  be  lying  quite  still.  Then  a  dreadful  feeling 
came  into  my  mind — suppose  Winny  were  dead,  and  that  I 
had  refused  to  make  friends  and  say  good-night!  I  must  have 
got  fanciful  with  lying  awake,  I  suppose,  and  you  know  I  was 
only  a  very  little  girl.  I  could  not  bear  it — I  stretched  myself 
across  to  Winny  and  put  my  arms  round  her. 

"Winny!  Winny!"  I  said,  "wake  up,  Winny,  and  kiss  me, 
and  let  us  say  good-night." 

Winny  woke  up  almost  immediately,  and  she  seemed  to 
understand  at  once. 

"Poor  little  Meg,"  she  said,  "poor  little  Meg.  We  will 
never  be  unkind  to  each  other  again — never.  Good-night, 
dear  Meg." 

"Good-night,  Winny,"  I  said.  And  just  as  I  was  falling 
asleep  I  whispered  to  her — "I  will  never  let  you  go  to  sleep 
again,  Winny,  without  saying  good-night."  And  I  never  did, 
never  except   once. 

I  could  tell  you  ever  so  many  other  things  about  Winny.  but  I 
dare  say  you  would  be  tired,  for,  of  course,  they  cannot  be 
so  interesting  to  any  other  little  girls  as  to  me.  But  I  think 
you  will  wish  to  hear  about  our  last  good-night. 

Have  I  told  you  about  our  aunts  at  all?  We  had  two 
aunties  we  were  very  fond  of.  They  were  young  and  merry 
and  so  kind  to  us,  and  there  was  nothing  we  liked  so  much  as 
going  to  stay  with  them,  for  their  home — our  grandfather's — 
was  not  far  away.  We  generally  all  went  there  to  spend 
Christmas,  but  one  year   something,   I   forget   what,   had  pre- 


GOOD-NIGHT  WINNY  347 

vented  this,  so  to  make  up  for  it  we  were  promised  to  spend 
Easter  with  them.  We  did  so  look  forward  to  it — we  were  to  go 
by  ourselves,  just  like  young  ladies  going  to  pay  a  visit,  and 
we  were  to  stay  from  Saturday  till  Easter  Monday  or  Tuesday. 

On  the  Saturday  morning  we  woke  up  so  early— hours  before 
it  was  time  to  be  dressed — we  were  so  excited  about  our  visit. 
But  somehow  Winny  did  not  seem  quite  as  happy  about  it  as 
I  wanted  her  to  be.  I  asked  her  what  made  her  dull,  and  she 
said  it  was  because  she  did  not  like  leaving  papa  and  mamma, 
and  Dolly  and  Blanche,  not  even  for  two  or  three  days.  And 
when  we  went  into  mamma's  room  to  say  good-morning  as 
usual,  Winny  said  so  to  her  too.  Mamma  laughed  at  her  a 
little,  and  said  she  was  a  great  baby  after  all;  and  Winny 
smiled,  but  still  she  seemed  dull,  and  I  shall  never  forget  what 
a  long,  long  kiss  she  gave  mamma  that  morning,  as  if  she 
could  not  bear  to  let  go  of  her. 

When  we  went  to  the  nursery  for  breakfast,  baby  Blanche 
was  crying  very  much,  and  nurse  said  she  was  very  cross.  She 
did  not  think  she  was  quite  well,  and  we  must  be  good  and 
quiet.  After  breakfast,  when  mamma  came  to  see  baby,  she 
seemed  anxious  about  her,  but  baby  went  to  sleep  before  long 
quite  comfortably,  and  then  nurse  said  she  would  be  better 
when  she  awoke;  it  was  probably  just  a  little  cold.  And  very 
soon  the  pony  carriage  was  ready  for  Winny  and  me,  and 
we  kissed  them  all  and  set  off  on  our  visit.  I  was  in  high  spirits, 
but  as  we  drove  away  I  saw  that  Winny  was  actually  crying  a 
little,  and  she  did  not  often  cry. 

When  we  got  to  our  aunties',  however,  she  grew  quite 
happy  again.  We  were  very  happy  indeed  on  Sunday,  only 
Winny  kept  saying  how  glad  she  would  be  to  see  them  all  at 
home  again  on  Monday  or  Tuesday.  But  on  Monday  morn- 
ing there  came  a  letter,  which  made  our  aunties  look  grave. 
They  did  not  tell  us  about  it  till  Winny  asked  if  we  were  to  go 
home  "to-day,"  and  then  they  told  us  that  perhaps  we  could 


348  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

not  go  home  for  several  days — not  for  two  or  three  weeks  even, 
for  poor  baby  Blanche  was  very  ill,  and  it  was  a  sort  of  illness 
we  might  catch  from  her  if  we  were  with  her. 

"And  that  would  only  add  to  your  poor  mamma's  trouble," 
said  our  aunties;  "so  you  see,  dears,  it  is  much  the  best  for 
you  to  stay  here." 

I  did  not  mind  at  all;  indeed  I  was  pleased.  I  was  sorry 
about  baby,  but  not  very,  for  I  thought  she  would  soon  be 
better.     But  Winny  looked  very  sad. 

"Aunty,"  she  said,  "you  don't  think  poor  baby  will  die, 
do  you?" 

"No,  dear;  I  hope  she  will  soon  be  better,"  said  aunty,  and 
then   Winny   looked   happier. 

"Meg,"  she  whispered  to  me,  "we  must  be  sure  to  remember 
about  poor  baby  being  ill  when  we  say  our  prayers."  And  we 
fixed  that  we  would. 

After  that  we  were  very  happy  for  two  or  three  weeks. 
Sometimes  we  were  sorry  about  baby  and  Dolly,  for  baby  was 
very  ill  we  were  told,  and  Dolly  had  caught  the  fever  too. 
But  after  a  while  news  came  that  they  were  both  better,  and 
we  began  to  look  forward  to  seeing  papa  and  mamma  and 
them  again.  We  used  to  write  little  letters  to  them  all  at 
home,  and  that  was  great  fun;  and  we  used  to  go  such  nice 
walks.  The  fields  and  lanes  were  full  of  daffodils,  and  soon 
the  primroses  came  and  the  violets,  and  Winny  was  always 
gathering  them  and  making  wreaths  and  nosegays.  It  was  a 
very  happy  time,  and  it  all  comes  back  into  my  mind  dreadfully , 
when  I  see  the  spring  flowers,  especially  the  primroses,  every 
year. 

One  day  we  had  had  a  particularly  nice  walk,  and  when 
we  came  in  Winny  seemed  so  full  of  spirits  that  she  hardly 
knew  what  to  do  with  herself.  We  had  a  regular  romp.  In 
our  romping,  by  accident,  Winny  knocked  me  down,  for  she 
was  very  strong,  and  I  hurt  my  thumb.    I  was  often  silly  about 


GOOD-NIGHT  WINNY  349 

being  hurt  even  a  little,  and  I  began  to  cry.  Then  Winny  was 
so  sorry;  she  kissed  me  and  petted  me,  and  gave  me  all  her 
primrose  wreaths  and  nosegays,  so  I  soon  left  off  crying.  But 
somehow  Winny's  high  spirits  had  gone  away.  She  shivered 
a  little  and  went  close  to  the  fire  to  get  warm,  and  soon  she 
said  she  was  tired,  and  we  both  went  to  bed.  I  remember  that 
night  so  well.  Winny  did  not  seem  sleepy  Avhen  she  was  in 
bed,  and  I  wasn't  either.  She  talked  to  me  a  great  deal,  and  so 
nicely.  It  was  not  about  when  we  should  be  big  girls;  it  was 
about  now  things;  about  not  being  cross  ever,  and  helping 
mamma,  and  about  how  pretty  the  flowers  had  looked,  and  how 
kind  every  one  was  to  us,  and  how  kind  God  must  be  to  make 
every  one  so,  and  just  at  the  last,  as  she  was  falling  asleep, 
she  said,  "I  do  wonder  so  if  there  are  primroses  in  heaven?"  and 
then  she  fell  asleep,  and  so  did  I. 

When  I  woke  in  the  morning,  I  heard  voices  talking  be- 
side me.  It  was  one  of  our  aunties.  She  was  standing  beside 
Winny,  speaking  to  her.  When  she  looked  round  and  saw  that 
I  was  awake,  she  said  to  me  in  a  kind  but  rather  a  strange  voice, 
"Meg,  dear,  put  on  your  dressing-gown  and  run  down  to  my 
room  to  be  dressed.  Winny  has  a  headache,  and  I  think  she 
had  better  not  get  up  to  breakfast." 

I  got  up  immediately  and  put  on  my  slippers,  and  I  was 
running  out  of  the  room  when  I  thought  of  something  and  ran 
back.  I  put  Winny's  slippers  neatly  beside  her  crib,  and  I  said 
to  her,  "I  have  put  them  ready  for  you  when  you  get  up,  Winny." 
I  wanted  to  do  something  for  her  you  see,  because  I  was  so 
sorry  about  her  headache.  She  did  not  speak,  but  she  looked  at 
me  with  such  a  look  in  her  eyes.  Then  she  said,  "Kiss  me,  Meg, 
dear  little  Meg,"  and  I  was  just  going  to  kiss  her  when  she  suddenly 
seemed  to  remember,  and  she  drew  back.  "No,  dear,  you  mustn't," 
she  said;  "aunty  would  say  it  was  better  not,  because  I'm  not 
well." 


350  STORIES  BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

"Could  I  catch  your  headache,  Winny?"  I  said,  "or  is  it 
a  cold  you've  got?    You  are  not  very  ill,  Winny?" 

She  only  smiled  at  me,  and  just  then  I  heard  aunty  calling 
to  me  to  be  quick.  Winny's  little  hand  was  hanging  over  the 
side  of  the  bed.  I  took  it,  and  kissed  it — poor  little  hand,  it 
felt  so  hot — "I  may  kiss  your  hand,  mayn't  I?"  I  said,  and  then 
I  ran  away. 

All  that  day  I  was  kept  away  from  Winny,  playing  by  my- 
self in  rooms  we  did  not  generally  go  into.  Sometimes  my  aunties 
would  come  to  the  door  for  a  minute  and  peep  at  me,  and  ask 
me  what  I  would  like  to  play  with,  but  it  was  very  dull.  My 
aunties'  maid  took  me  a  little  walk  in  garden,  and  she  put  me 
to  bed,  but  I  cried  myself  to  sleep  because  I  had  not  said  good- 
night to  Winny. 

"Oh  how  I  wish  I  had  never  been  cross  to  her!"  I  kept  think- 
ing; and  if  only  I  could  make  other  children  understand  how 
dreadful  that  feeling  was,  I  am  sure,  quite  sure,  they  would 
never,  never  quarrel. 

The  next  day  was  just  the  same  .playing  alone,  dinner  alone, 
everything  alone.  I  was  so  lonely.  I  never  saw  aunty  till  the 
evening,  when  it  was  nearly  bed-time,  and  then  she  came  to  the 
room  where  I  was,  and  I  called  out  to  her  immediately  to  ask 
how  Winny  was. 

"I  hope  she  will  soon  be  better,"  she  said.  "And,  Meg, 
dear,  it  is  your  bed-time  now." 

The  thought  of  going  to  bed  again  without  Winny  was  too 
hard.     I  began  to  cry. 

"O  aunty!"  I  said,  "I  do  so  want  to  say  good-night  to 
Winny.    I  always  say  good-night,  and  last  night  I  couldn't." 

Aunty  thought  for  a  minute.  She  looked  so  sorry  for  me. 
Then  she  said,  "I  will  see  if  I  can  manage  it.  Come  after  me, 
Meg."  She  went  up  through  a  part  of  the  house  I  did  not  know, 
and  into  a  room  where  there  was  a  closed  door.     She  tapped  at 


GOOD-NIGHT  WINNY  351 

it  without  opening,  and  called  out.  "Meg  has  come  to  say 
good-night  to  you,  through  the  door,  Winny  dear." 

Then  I  heard  Winny's  voice  say  softly,  "I  am  so  glad";  and 
I  called  out  quite  loud,  "Good-night,  Winny,"  but  Winny  an- 
swered— I  could  not  hear  her  voice  without  listening  close  at  the 
door — "Not  good-night  now,  Meg.    It  is  good-bye,  dear  Meg." 

I  looked  up  at  aunty.  It  seemed  to  me  her  face  had  grown 
white,  and  the  tears  were  in  her  eyes.  Somehow,  I  felt  a  little 
afraid. 

"What  does  Winny  mean,  aunty?"  I  said  in  a  whisper. 

"I  don't  know,  dear.  Perhaps  being  ill  makes  her  head 
confused,"  she  said.  So  I  called  out  again,  "Good-night,  Winny," 
and  aunty  led  me  away. 

But  Winny  was  right.  It  was  good-bye.  The  next  morning 
when  aunty's  maid  was  dressing  me,  I  saw  she  was  crying. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Hortense?"  I  said.  "Why  are  you 
unhappy?    Is  any  one  vexed  with  you?" 

But  she  only  shook  her  head  and  would  not  speak. 

After  I  had  had  my  breakfast,  Hortense  took  me  to  my 
aunties'  sitting-room.  And  when  she  opened  the  door,  to  my  de- 
light there  was  mamma,  sitting  with  both  my  aunties  by  the  fire. 
I  was  so  pleased,  I  gave  quite  a  cry  of  joy,  and  jumped  on  to 
her  knee. 

"Does  Winny  know  you've  come?"  I  cried,  "dear  mamma." 

But  when  I  looked  at  her  I  saw  that  her  face  was  very  white 
and  sad,  and  my  poor  aunties  were  crying.     Still  mamma  smiled. 

"Poor  Meg!"  she  said. 

"What  is  the  matter?  Why  is  everybody  so  strange  to- 
day?" I  said. 

Then  mamma  told  me.  "Meg,  dear,"  she  said,  "you  must 
try  to  remember  some  of  the  things  I  have  often  told  you  about 
Heaven,  what  a  happy  place  it  is,  with  no  being  ill  or  tired,  or 
any  troubles.     Meg,  dear,  Winny  has  gone  there." 

For  a  minute  I  did  not  seem  to  understand.     I  could  not 


352  STORIES  BY  MRS  MOLES  WORTH 

understand  Winny's  having  gone  without  telling  me.  A  sort 
of  giddy  feeling  came  over  me,  it  was  all  so  strange,  and  I  put 
my  head  down  on  mamma's  shoulder,  without  speaking. 

"Meg,  dear,  do  you  understand?"  she  said. 

"She  didn't  tell  me  she  was  going,"  I  said,  "but,  oh  yes, 
I  remember  she  said  good-bye  last  night.  Did  she  go  alone, 
mamma?  Who  came  for  her?  Did  Jesus?"  Something  made 
me  whisper  that. 

Mamma  just  said  softly,  "Yes." 

"Had  she  only  her  little  pink  dressing-gown  on?"  I  asked 
next.  "Wouldn't  she  be  cold?  Mamma,  dear,  is  it  a  long  way 
off?" 

"Not  to  her,"  she  said.     She  was  crying  now. 

"Do  you  think  if  I  set  off  now,  this  very  minute,  I  could 
get  up  to  her?" 

But  when  I  said  that,  mamma  clasped  me  tight. 

"Not  that  too,"  she  whispered.    "Meg,  Meg,  don't  say  that." 

I  was  sorry  for  her  crying,  and  I  stroked  her  cheek,  but 
still  I  wanted  to  go. 

"Heaven  is  such  a  nice  place,  mamma.  Winny  said  so,  only 
she  wondered  about  the  primroses.  Why  won't  you  let  me  go, 
mamma?"  And  just  then  my  eyes  happened  to  fall  on  the  little 
piece  of  black  sticking-plaster  that  Winny  had  put  on  my  thumb 
only  two  evenings  before,  when  she  had  hurt  it  without  meaning. 
"Mamma,  mamma,"  I  cried,  "I  can't  stay  here  without  Winny." 

It  all  seemed  to  come  into  my  mind  then  what  it  would  really 
be  to  be  without  her,  and  I  cried  and  cried  till  my  face  ached  with 
crying.  I  can't  remember  much  of  that  day,  nor  of  several  days. 
I  did  not  get- ill,  the  fever  did  not  come  to  me  somehow,  but  I 
seemed  to  get  stupid  with  missing  Winny.  Mamma  and  my 
aunties  talked  to  me,  but  it  did  not  do  any  good.  They  could 
not  tell  me  the  only  things  I  cared  to  hear — all  about  Winny, 
what  she  was  doing,  what  lessons  she  would  have,  if  she  would  al- 
ways wear  white  frocks,  and  all  sorts  of  things,  that  I  must  have 


GOOD-NIGHT  WINNY  353 

sadly  pained  them  by  asking.  For  I  did  not  then  at  all  understand 
about  death.  I  thought  that  Winny,  my  pretty  Winny,  just 
as  I  had  known  her,  had  gone  to  Heaven.  I  did  not  know  that 
her  dear  little  body  had  been  laid  to  rest  in  the  quiet  churchyard, 
and  that  it  was  her  spirit,  her  pure  happy  spirit,  that  had  gone  to 
heaven.  It  was  not  for  a  long  time  after  that,  that  I  was  old 
enough  to  understand  at  all,  and  even  now  it  is  hard  to  under- 
stand. Mamma  says  even  quite  big,  and  very,  very  clever  people 
find  it  hard,  and  that  the  best  way  is  to  trust  to  God  to  explain 
it  afterwards.  But  still  I  like  to  think  about  it,  and  I  like  to  think 
of  what  my  aunties  told  me  of  the  days  Winny  was  ill — how  happy 
and  patient  she  was,  how  she  seemed  to  "understand"  about  going, 
and  how  she  wanted  to  have  wreaths  of  primroses  about  her  all 
the  time  she  was  ill. 

I  am  a  big  girl  now — nearly  twelve.  I  am  a  good  deal  big- 
ger than  Winny  was  when  she  died,  even  Blanche  is  now  as 
big  as  she  was — is  that  not  strange  to  think  of!  Perhaps  I  may 
live  to  be  quite,  quite  an  old  woman — that  seems  stranger  still. 
But  «ven  if  I  do  I  shall  never  forget  Winny.  I  shall  know  her 
dear  face  again,  and  she  will  know  mine — I  feel  sure  she  will, 
in  that  happy  country  where  she  has  gone.  But  I  will  never 
again  say  "good-night"  to  my  Winny,  for  in  that  country  "there 
is  no  night — neither  sorrow  nor  weeping." 


